


Drink Like a Fish, Lie Like a Stone

by whitedatura



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Brief canon-typical violence, Canon Era, Canon-typical smoking and alcohol use, Competitive idiots, M/M, Post-Movie, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2019-07-05 12:29:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 69,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15863640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whitedatura/pseuds/whitedatura
Summary: The night before the battle of Rose Creek, Faraday comes to Vasquez with an offer he doesn't want to refuse. The aftermath is complicated by injuries and recovery, but Vasquez thinks they might have things figured out right up until the morning Faraday is nowhere to be found.The rest of the seven split into two groups with a promise to meet in Amador City in a few months' time. To everyone's surprise, Faraday shows up as well, drunk but with a lead on a gang of horse thieves.(In which Vasquez and Faraday compare dick sizes, argue about Vasquez's first name, mend a literal fence, and spend some quality time in a barn.)*** PLEASE NOTE: As of May 31, 2019, the expected chapter count has increased to seven. ***





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a slight mishearing of a Devil Makes Three song.
> 
> I _will_ finish this fic, but it might take a while.
> 
> [Kira](http://kirayamidemon.tumblr.com/)'s art goes with chapter three, so it's embedded there!
> 
> Big thank you to everyone on Discord, especially those of you who answered my horse and Spanish questions, and also to my wonderful beta Rachel who has amazingly put up with six different fandoms from me over the course of eight years.

**ROSE CREEK**

The boarding house stairs are a strange comfort under his feet as Vasquez climbs the steps to his room. The third creaks, the fifth squeaks like a mouse, and the sixth has a splintered patch in the center. He skips the eighth entirely, knowing it will groan like it's liable to snap in half if he puts his weight on it. It's been months since he's stayed anywhere long enough to get familiar, but he can't regret that it's set to end at dawn with the arrival of Bogue and his army. On the heels of his months on the run the past week has been surreal: regular meals, a bed with a roof over it, men who trust him at his back, a town depending on them.

A heavy tread from further down stops him from thinking on it too hard. He knows before he turns who it must be. "You staying, güero?"

Faraday pulls a face Vasquez can barely make out in the dim light. "Never said I wasn't."

"Never said you were." If Vasquez is honest with himself, Faraday's silence on the matter had been something of a disappointment. He's grown more fond of Faraday's irreverence than he'd care to admit from a few days of travel and week's worth of shared meals.

"Firstly, I ain't no coward. Secondly, y'think I went through the trouble of laying all that dynamite to let someone else have all the fun of blowin' it up?"

Vasquez grins. It's hard to take a man's measure in so short a time, but he's glad he wasn't wrong about Faraday. He'll take what meager comfort he can get, this night of all nights. He starts back on his way with a careless wave over his shoulder.

"Hey, hold up—don't walk away when I'm tryin' to talk to you, muchacho."

"Is that what you are doing?" But Vasquez waits as Faraday bounds up the remaining steps and only snorts a little when Faraday's foot catches on a loose floorboard he'd sidestepped without a thought.

Faraday straightens up like nothing happened and peers down the dark hall. "We alone up here?"

"Sí."

"See wh—oh. You mean yes. Y-e-s," Faraday drawls like Vasquez is a particularly dimwitted child. 

"I mean there's no one up here to say otherwise if you have an accident and fall down the stairs two or three times."

Faraday opens his mouth to retort, then shakes his head and waves his hands as if he can clear the air. "I'm gettin' off-track. What I meant to say was, uh, seeing as how none of the working ladies stuck around to get killed, I got a proposition. For you."

Vasquez's eyebrows fly up as he follows that thought to its natural conclusion, but this is Faraday, and assuming anything is likely to get him shot at, even if he's right. (Maybe especially if he's right.) Though Faraday doesn't seem much inclined to continue without some prodding, so Vasquez crosses his arms over his chest, hip cocked, and twirls a finger in a pointed suggestion to go on.

Faraday shuffles before pulling on a smirk. "Y'know. A little impersonal, mutual—" He breaks off into a gesture that leaves nothing to the imagination. Vasquez swallows a laugh. "I'd’ve asked Goodnight for some fancy word for it, but turns out he _is_ a coward."

“Oye, do not let Rocks hear you say that unless you want some new holes.” If Rocks can aim through a few bottles of whiskey, which Vasquez suspects he can.

Faraday shrugs, though his gaze flicks down the stairs. “How 'bout it?”

It's the first trustworthy offer Vasquez has gotten since his face started showing up on wanted posters, and a far sight better than some of the ones before that, besides. It's not uncommon for men who travel together to take up with each other in such ways—Rocks wouldn't be drinking himself blind right now if he and Robicheaux didn’t have such an understanding. Up until tonight, Vasquez had envied them.

(If he doubts his ability to keep anything involving Faraday _impersonal_ , he'll keep it to himself. It may not matter, come tomorrow, and it's hardly Faraday’s problem if it does.)

The quiet must stretch too long because the sly smile slips from Faraday's face. He makes a show of backing up a step, open palms raised in _don't shoot_ , and starts running his mouth. "Seeing as how this is likely our last night livin' and all, I figured you're my best bet. Townsfolk are all too busy shakin' in their boots, and I ain't getting into the obvious reasons to not try the others. I mean, Horne? Not if he were the last willing body on Earth. Chisolm'd be all sorts of wrong, and Rocks is too busy finding the bottom of every bottle he can lay hands on and spoken for, besides. Could be I’d finally get a laugh out of our Comanche friend if I tried him, but that's not my aim. That leaves you, muchacho.” The torrent of words almost distracts from the way Faraday has retreated further, one foot back on the stairs.

"Que halagador," Vasquez mutters, but he's not going to let a few insults get in the way of something he wants. "You were so sure _I_ would not laugh?"

Faraday backs down another step. "Well, no, but I did figure I could outdraw you if you got your back up over it."

It's a wonder Faraday isn't in a shallow grave somewhere. "Tienes suerte que me caes bien," Vasquez mutters, because like hell is he going to admit to liking Faraday in a language the man understands.

"You know I don't speak Mexican, right?"

A brawl in the hallway might change Faraday's inclinations, so Vasquez takes a deep breath and casts his gaze upward with a muttered prayer for patience. He pushes the door of his room open, but Faraday's staring at the floor. His tone is sharp when he barks, "Güero," but when he tilts his chin meaningfully at the open door, Faraday's across the hallway in no time, sidling past with a grin and a mocking tip of his hat. 

The door's barely shut before Faraday crowds him up against the wall, knocking their hats askew as he leans in for a rough kiss, mouth hot and tasting faintly of whiskey. ( _Whiskey_ isn't a surprise, _faint_ is.) Vasquez fumbles to take his off and tosses it at the table before angling his mouth against Faraday's more firmly. At the scrape of Vasquez's teeth against his lower lip, Faraday jerks back and stares, even paler than usual in the sliver of moonlight filtering in through the dusty window. 

Vasquez smirks. "Problem?"

Faraday blindly throws his hat behind him and leans back in, so Vasquez takes that as a no and nips at at Faraday's jaw and neck as Faraday makes a noise he's clearly trying not to and attempts to distract Vasquez from it by tugging his shirt out of his pants.

"In a hurry?" Vasquez murmurs into the patch of skin just below Faraday's ear and stifles a grin at the ensuing gooseflesh. If Faraday wants to do this quickly, that's fine, but this urgency reads as eagerness. 

"Less talking, more undressing," Faraday demands, voice gruff. "I don't gotta treat you all soft-like, do I?"

Vasquez scoffs, plants two hands on Faraday's chest, and shoves. "If you are soft, this is not going to get very far."

Faraday blusters out an "I—" before realizing he's caught between admitting inadequacy or owning up to the growing arousal Vasquez had felt against his hip. Taking pity, Vasquez deliberately starts unbuttoning his vest, eyebrows raised. Faraday mirrors the action and then unbuckles his gun belt, his sidelong glance daring Vasquez to do the same. Once their guns are out of the equation—including a holdout pistol Faraday produces from somewhere—it's a race to get their boots, shirts, and pants off, and if Vasquez had had to guess five minutes ago what _impersonal_ meant, the look on Faraday's face wouldn't have been it. 

He pushes their clothes aside with his foot and saunters closer, doing his best to ignore his heart pounding against his ribs. The bandana still knotted around Faraday's throat begs to be used, so he hooks a finger under it and tugs. Faraday's blunt nails dig into his shoulder blades as their lips meet again, and Vasquez's thumbs press into the bony knobs of Faraday's hips as he pulls him closer, eyes falling shut.

It's good, so good, and whatever this is, impersonal isn't it. Impersonal is up against the wall, clothes on, cocks pulled hastily through flies, hurried and dry and perfunctory.

When Vasquez tries to pull away to catch his breath, Faraday follows, arms wrapping solidly around his waist. This close, it's impossible not to notice how broad Faraday is against Vasquez's lankier frame. Faraday notices Vasquez noticing, another smirk curling at the corners of his mouth, and there's no way Vasquez can let that stand. With their boots and hats off, it's obvious he has an inch or two on Faraday, so he straightens up and copies Faraday's smirk.

Faraday wastes no time declaring, "You are _not_ taller'n me."

"That's not how it looks from up here," Vasquez replies, grinning when Faraday's eyes narrow with indignation. He expects the shove that comes and freely shoves back, grin still firmly in place as he ducks away from Faraday's attempt to get an arm around his neck. They tussle near-naked until Vasquez trips over a discarded boot and half-falls onto the bed, dragging a cackling Faraday down after him.

"Ain't my fault you're built like a snake on stilts," Faraday says in his ear. His knee is perilously close to cutting their fun short, but he only snickers into the curve of Vasquez's shoulder when Vasquez ignores the jab to snap, "Careful! I'm planning on using that."

Vasquez shuffles further up the bed, but the only thing that accomplishes is helping Faraday slot one broad thigh between his, which is—it's been altogether too long if this is all it takes for him to go hot all over. (He will not admit that it might only be Faraday himself causing this reaction.) His breath hisses out through gritted teeth as his hips arch up on their own accord, cock rubbing against the hard muscle. Faraday lets his bulk press Vasquez further into the mattress as he rolls his hips in turn, better than it has any right to be through two layers of cloth. The click of Faraday's throat working is painfully audible in the sudden stillness.

Tension thickens the air until Faraday huffs and asks, "We get this far to leave our drawers on?"

Grateful to dodge whatever that'd been leading to, Vasquez lets his hands fall from Faraday's waist. "What do you want me to do about it? You are the one—" he makes a helpless gesture against the bed. He _could_ push Faraday off, but he doesn't particularly want to.

"Oh. Right."

They stare at each other.

"Right," Faraday says again, raising himself up maybe an inch. The distance has no effect on Vasquez's ability to breathe. "Hell. There ain't no suave way of doin' this, is there?"

 _What do you care about being suave?_ Vasquez does not ask, but he can't let it pass without saying something. "Nothing you can do will make me think you are suave, güero."

"Hey, I am very—" Whatever's on Vasquez's face stops Faraday short. His lips thin and he nods to himself before going up on his knees. "Well, don't feel too bad if you don't compare."

" _Really_?" Vasquez gets out before he helps Faraday the rest of the way off the bed with a firm heel to the gut. There's a satisfying _thump_ followed closely by a colorful stream of swears that Vasquez puts an end to by shucking his drawers and flinging them at Faraday's face. Despite everything that's come out of Faraday's mouth, Vasquez is so worked up that there's already liquid beading at the tip of his cock. He takes himself in hand while Faraday's distracted with removing two pairs of drawers from his person and smears it in a desperate bid to hide his eagerness.

"God knows why I thought this was a good idea," Faraday is muttering to himself as he hops awkwardly on one foot to finish yanking his drawers off. When he looks back at the bed, at _Vasquez_ , his tongue darts out to wet his lips. The leer on his face is at odds with the complaint that comes out his mouth. "Now you're gettin' started without me? C'mon, have some mercy."

Vasquez manages a one-shouldered shrug and doesn't move his hand away, though his grip is mostly for show. "You take too long."

"You kicked me off the bed!"

"Maybe don't say stupid things." _Next time_ hangs in the air, unspoken. Vasquez sighs through his nose and goes up on one elbow. He cocks his head, considering, then flicks a finger between them. "I'm not seeing much of a difference here, cabrón."

Faraday takes the bait, looking down with a thoughtful frown.

Vasquez can't resist. "If anything, I think I am bi—"

Faraday's on him in a flash, one hand clapped over his mouth as the rest of him flattens Vasquez to the mattress. "Jesus wept. I thought _I_ had problems keepin' my mouth shut."

Vasquez tries to assure him that's definitely still an issue, but he might as well say it in Spanish for how muffled the words come out against Faraday's skin. After a moment's consideration, Vasquez licks Faraday's palm and laughs when Faraday's face screws up in disbelief. But his hand doesn't budge, so Vasquez does it again. Around the third lick they both seem to remember what they're meant to be doing. Faraday promptly replaces his hand with his mouth, which is much more satisfying, especially after he shifts to wrap his spit-slick hand around their cocks.

Vasquez makes a sound he's not altogether proud of and Faraday leers. His tone is unbearably smug when he says, "Anyway, it's what you do with it that matters."

"Oh, I forgot, you are the world's greatest lover, yes?"

Faraday starts snickering. "Would you just—stop makin' me laugh when I'm..." he trails off and presses his forehead into the pillow, close enough for Vasquez to feel his shuddering exhale.

"Cabrón, you started it."

"And now I'm tryin' to end it, if you'd kindly shut your dang mouth."

At the first rough pump of Faraday's hand Vasquez ducks his head, eyes squeezing shut as he sets his teeth none-too-gently against the stubbly skin of Faraday's sweat-salty neck. Faraday's pulse jumps under his tongue. Faraday offers a token, "Ow, ya damn vampire, I didn't mean on me," before he tilts his head to give Vasquez better access.

Some other time Vasquez might've said something about Faraday's exasperating, contradictory nature, but there are other things to focus on. Their skin is starting to stick together with sweat, and one of them is leaking enough to turn Faraday's too-dry grip into just the right amount of slick to make Vasquez's breath catch in his throat as he thrusts against the heat of Faraday's cock. He keeps a firm hold on Faraday's back and hip for all that he wants to slide his hands down and get two handfuls of his ass, but that's a line he probably shouldn't cross.

His head falls back against the mattress as Faraday quickens the pace. The little noises Faraday's making in the back of his throat prove to be Vasquez's undoing; he comes with a bitten-off groan, hot and wet, fingers digging into Faraday's skin. Faraday makes a sound like he's been punched in the gut and lets go of Vasquez's cock, too soon for his liking, but he's too weak to do anything about it. He basks in it for all of a minute before the noises Faraday's still making become too great a distraction.

Any breath he's gotten back is knocked clean out again when he peers down their bodies to see Faraday's cock and fist covered in his spend. Before he can gather the presence of mind to offer a hand, Faraday's strokes speed up, his breath hitches, and he comes all over Vasquez. The arm that'd been holding him up gives out and he collapses half onto the mattress, half on Vasquez, his face tucked against Vasquez's neck. Vasquez wants to kiss him with a sudden, fierce desperation, but there's no way to play that off as something it isn't. He presses his cheek against Faraday's sweaty hair and waits.

It doesn't take long for the peace to break.

"By God, you're easy," Faraday mumbles, like he hadn't finished himself off on Vasquez's stomach without bothering to wait a damn minute for Vasquez to return the favor.

Vasquez snorts. "You complaining, güerito?"

"I—no. Reckon I ain't."

Vasquez holds perfectly still when Faraday shifts around like he's fixing to get up. The thought of being alone now is particularly unbearable, but he must have some pride left not eaten away by life on the run because the words to ask Faraday to stay won't come. Instead Vasquez finds himself teasing, "I don't know about world's greatest—"

"Hey!" comes the immediate protest.

"—but it was, hm, adecuado."

"That better mean fantastic."

Vasquez gives the ceiling a sly grin. "Something like that."

There's a beat of silence, then Faraday shoves at Vasquez's shoulder. "Why'd you have to say it like that? Now I know that's not what it means." He sits up and swings his feet over the side of the bed, and the grin slips off Vasquez's face. "I _was_ gonna get a rag from the wash basin to clean off, but now I'm gonna use your shirt with the fancy stitchin' on it."

Vasquez yelps out a wordless protest and snags Faraday around the waist before he can lunge for the heap of clothes on the floor. "Over my dead body, cabrón!"

"Aw, Vas, you're gettin' even more on me—" Vasquez swipes a hand over his stomach and smears it across Faraday's thigh. "Oh, that is repulsive."

"Touch my shirt and I will do much worse."

"Okay, okay, I won't mess up your shirt. Let go already."

"None of my things," Vasquez clarifies, because Faraday would absolutely leave his shirt alone in favor of his vest or pants.

"Fine."

Reluctantly, Vasquez lets go, though he keeps a sharp eye on Faraday's progress across the room to the basin, which turns out to be a good idea since Faraday whips a wet rag at him without any warning. "Gracias," he says, desert dry.

As they're cleaning off, Faraday says to the wall, "There's no way you can sit there and say you didn't like that and not be lyin' through your teeth."

"I did not say that," Vasquez points out.

"So you _did_ like it."

There's something underneath the teasing tone that has Vasquez saying, "I don't know, maybe we should do it again."

Faraday's head whips around. "What, really? I mean—what I meant to say was, hell, I thought you'd take more convincing the first time 'round and now you're suggestin' we go again? I _am_ the world's greatest lover, admit it."

Vasquez huffs and chucks the dirty rag back at Faraday. "If you are not up for it, just say so."

A jaw-cracking yawn interrupts Faraday's answer; Vasquez has to clench his teeth so as not to do the same and potentially lose his chance at having Faraday's company for the rest of the night. Sleep can wait.

"I'm up for it," Faraday drawls, one corner of his mouth curling up, but then he yawns again and Vasquez's hopes sink into the floorboards. "But I could use a bit of shut-eye first. There's a lotta folks that need killin' come morning, and I'd like to be awake for it." Faraday eyeballs his clothes strewn across the floor with the distinct air of a man considering going stark naked in public.

Deliberately facing away, Vasquez pulls back the roughspun blankets and situates himself with his back to the door, willfully ignoring the itch it puts between his shoulder blades. "Stay here, güero, unless you want to scare off the townsfolk who're left. We need them tomorrow."

The shuffling behind him falls quiet.

"I ain't sleepin' on the floor."

Vasquez grunts and pointedly scoots closer to the edge of the bed.

A few moments later, the mattress dips under Faraday's weight. It takes him a minute to settle on his back, his skin cool and still damp in places. The itch between Vasquez's shoulder blades dissipates with Faraday at his back. Neither of them mention the bed's a tight fit for two men their size, or that it feels the opposite of _impersonal_ for all that they're only laying next to each other and touching out of necessity.

He expects Faraday to drop off immediately, but that proves not to be the case. Several silent minutes later, Faraday blurts out, "Why're you staying?" There's hardly a pause before Faraday adds, "Nowhere else to go, right, but there are a whole helluva lot of nowheres less likely to get you killed."

That's less true for Vasquez than it is for most of the others, but saying so will make it sound like he's fishing for pity, which is one of the last things he wants from Faraday. "I am trying something out."

Faraday snorts. "What, stupidity?"

Slowly, Vasquez says, "Responsibility. The last time I tried, it did not go so well." Last time he'd ended up with a Texas Ranger dead by his hand and nothing to show for it but a $500 bounty and being thrown out by the rancher who'd taken him in. This time all he's risking is his own neck. "And you? To blow things up?"

There's a pause like Faraday hadn't expected the question. "That, and I need my horse back from Chisolm."

"Your horse is a devil on four legs."

"Dang right." Faraday sounds so damnably fond of the beast that Vasquez envies him. 

"Weren't you going to sleep?"

"I'm gettin' there," Faraday grumbles and jostles Vasquez with his shoulder, nearly knocking him off the bed.

Vasquez grumbles back and jabs him in the ribs with an elbow. "Are you? Will I be able to tell, or do you also talk when you are asleep?"

"Hey, fuck you, muchacho," but Faraday is chortling.

"Take your nap."

Faraday mutters something incomprehensible in response and wiggles around a little more before his breathing slowly evens out. Vasquez doesn't intend to sleep, but he feels safe in a way he hasn't in months and his muscles are pleasantly loose from orgasm and it pulls him down anyway.

Pounding on the door jolts Vasquez awake. He's half-sitting before he registers what woke him, blankets snagged around his waist. He glances down, confused, then registers the arm draped over him in the pre-dawn gloom. Only one of Faraday's eyes is half-open, peering blearily at him. "Whassit?" he slurs.

Before Vasquez can reply, a voice he recognizes as Chisolm's calls through the door, "Vasquez? You in there?"

"Sí!" he calls back.

"You seen Faraday?"

Vasquez catches Faraday's now wide-eyed gaze and does not burst out laughing, but it's a near thing. "Sí!" he says again but offers nothing further.

"All right," Chisolm says after a moment's expectant pause goes unanswered. "It's about time to get into position. Tell him if you see him."

Only after Chisolm's footsteps creak down the hall does Vasquez start cackling. Faraday hits him open-palmed on the chest and manages to get out, "Jackass," through his laughter.

When he's got his breath back, Vasquez says, "He does not need to know how much of you I have seen," just to set Faraday off again.

Faraday's still wheezing when Vasquez hauls himself out of bed to dress. He lets himself pat Faraday's bare hip as he passes to sort through the jumble of clothes on the floor, tossing Faraday his drawers and pants before he finds his own.

"Guess we never got to round two," Faraday says, tone thoughtful. When Vasquez chances a glance, Faraday is looking down at his clothes, chest bare, his hair a wild mess of auburn cowlicks.

"Guess not," he agrees, cautious. It would've been nice. Hell, it would've been nice to have done this with Faraday the whole week, but nothing can change that now.

"Maybe if we don't have too many new holes when this's over..." Faraday trails off and waits until Vasquez looks up from buttoning his vest to waggle his eyebrows.

Vasquez ducks to hide a smile. "Maybe, güerito," is all he says, but he means _yes_.

They give each other a nod before they head to their posts.

Vasquez hopes he'll see Faraday again.

***

The next time Vasquez sees Faraday, he's been shot by a Blackstone. Vasquez takes exception to this and empties one of his guns into the man, which is a stupid move when they need every bullet, but rage doesn't have much concern for practicalities. Vasquez gets clipped himself not too long after in the rain of hellfire from the Gatling gun. It hurts just as much as he remembers, but it takes his mind off Faraday's hand pressed to his side, coated in blood.

After a tense few minutes' wait, Robicheaux yells from the steeple, "Sweet son of a bitch, it's gotta be jammed! Someone take that thing out before they fix it!"

The next glimpse Vasquez has of Faraday he's riding like the hounds of hell are on his heels toward the hill and the jammed Gatling. It never fires again.

Once the dust has settled, every Blackstone dead or nearly there, Vasquez comes to the slow realization that he hadn't seen Faraday's return. The rush of the fight begins to subside, leaving him cold and trembling even as a thundering grows in his ears as he searches the living faces around him. Some are bloodied, some blackened with soot, some half-covered in makeshift bandages, but none of them are Faraday.

There is smoke in the distance.

Without conscious decision, he finds a horse and mounts it in a numb haze. He has to pick his way carefully on the road, but once he's cleared the fallen he urges it into a gallop toward the field Faraday had ridden toward. There's a commotion behind him that he barely registers as the thundering crests into a roar, but no one is shooting at him, so it isn't important. He's vaguely aware of his still-bleeding arm, but it doesn't stop him from riding, so that's not important, either. 

The field's tall waving grasses give him pause. There's no way he's going to spot Faraday until he's practically on top of him, and there's a lot of ground to cover. There are also a lot of bodies, human and animal alike. There's movement in the corner of his eye and he spins, drawing an empty gun, but it's only Red Harvest. Red Harvest barely spares the gun a glance before nudging his horse alongside Vasquez's and pointing toward a smoking heap of wreckage in the distance.

They wordlessly divide the route between them and start hollering Faraday's name. 

The sun is high overhead and Vasquez is going hoarse when Red Harvest yells, "Here!"

Elation and cold dread war in the pit of Vasquez's gut as he gallops over. There's a smoldering wagon wheel a few feet from where Red Harvest is crouched over—Faraday. Vasquez nearly gets his boot caught in the stirrup in his hurry to dismount.

"Is he—"

"Alive."

A thready voice from the ground says, "I ain't so sure about that," and Vasquez almost laughs at the giddy wave of relief that washes over him. Faraday's eyes are squeezed shut and his face is fixed in a grimace, but he is definitely alive. 

"Two bullet wounds and a burn," Red Harvest says, gaze clinical.

That's—not good. Vasquez reaches down to pat Faraday's cheek, gently at first, then sharper when that has no effect. "Faraday. Güero. Oye, güerito, wake up."

Faraday's eyes slit open and he mumbles something incomprehensible before his face goes slack. Vasquez's heart stops in his chest and he's halfway to grabbing Faraday's shoulders to shake him when Red Harvest grabs his wrist and forces his hand an inch or so above Faraday's nose and mouth and—he's still breathing. He's still breathing.

There's a sharp poke to the shoulder of his wounded arm. Vasquez yelps and glares at Red Harvest, who, he belatedly realizes, had been trying to tell him something. "Lo siento, qué?"

"Need to clean the wounds and," Red Harvest continues in his native language while making a wrapping gesture, which is hard to misinterpret. He tries to ignore his shaking hands as he fishes through Faraday's bloody vest pockets for the flask he knows is there, but he's self-aware enough to pass it over when he locates it. Vasquez can tell it won't be enough, but it's the best they can do in a damned field. Red Harvest unceremoniously pulls Faraday's ruined shirt aside to reveal the bullet wound in his side—Vasquez has a moment's vicious satisfaction that he'd killed the man who'd put it there—and upends the flask over it. 

Faraday's eyes fly open, the awful noise he makes somewhere between a scream and a bellow before he falls unconscious again. Vasquez reaches out to do— _something_ , but Red Harvest pushes a wad of cloth at him and gestures for Vasquez to press it against the bloody hole. There's another wound in Faraday's thigh that needs seeing to, and one of his sleeves is burnt off from elbow to wrist, but all Vasquez can do is stare at the red creeping across the cloth he's holding.

"He's going to kill us for using his whiskey," he says, because he has to say something or give in to the fear wrapping itself around his chest.

Red Harvest grunts. "He'll be alive to try."

***

If Chisolm had had a plan for the aftermath of the battle for Rose Creek, spending a few tense days waiting to see if the injured members of their band would succumb to their wounds or infection likely hadn't been it.

Of the seven of them, Chisolm, Red Harvest, and Rocks hadn't sustained more than a few scratches, and Vasquez counts himself among them with only the graze to his arm that'd needed seeing to. Robicheaux has a broken arm and a gunshot wound in his side from when he'd ridden back into town hellbent on delivering the warning about the Gatling, Horne had dragged himself in with more than a few broken-off arrow shafts sticking out of him, and Faraday—Faraday had been damn lucky Vasquez and Red Harvest had stopped him from irrigating the field with what little blood had been left in his body.

With so many in the town wounded, once the doc had finished the initial patch jobs they'd been largely on their own. Rocks had immediately stationed himself at Robicheaux's side and barely left it to piss. Red Harvest had up and disappeared for two days only to return with no explanation and a bundle of herbs he'd turned into some sort of paste to pack in the wounds of any of them that held still long enough. Chisolm had taken to making sure they all got fed, and Vasquez did whatever else that needed doing, which made Faraday madder than a wet hen once he woke up.

"You're doin' _what_ with a hole in your arm?" Faraday demands one evening. "And I ain't allowed outta this dang bed?"

"Telling you to quit your bellyachin' seems a little too on-the-nose," Robicheaux muses from across the room. Riling Faraday up has become Robicheaux's favorite pastime during their shared convalescence, and if Rocks wouldn't have stabbed Vasquez with six different pigstickers he might've seriously considered smothering the man to get him to stop. Then again, if Vasquez had been the one stuck in a room with a bored Faraday, maybe he'd be doing the same.

Vasquez puts a careful hand on Faraday's shoulder to stop him from trying to get out of bed to strangle Robicheaux himself. "Güero, you are not allowed out of bed because your insides have a hole in them. _I_ am barely hurt, and I like helping."

Faraday mutters something under his breath that does not sound terribly kind.

"¿Oh si? Pendejo, eres el que fue disparado dos veces y casi muerto."

" _Ugh_ ," Faraday moans and melodramatically buries his face in the crook of his good arm. The left is wrapped in bandages from wrist to elbow. "Don't Mexican at me, you dang... Mexican."

"Entonces no seas tan estúpido."

Faraday's eyes narrow. "That sounded an awful lot like you called me stupid."

"Did it?" Vasquez grins. 

"Billy, do my ears deceive me, or is Vasquez antagonizing Faraday in the exact same manner I just was? It certainly _sounds_ that way, yet when I do it I half-expect to have a cigar put out somewhere on my person."

Rocks doesn't look up from polishing one of his knives. "It does sound that way, Goody."

Faraday rolls his eyes so hard Vasquez is surprised they don't fall out and silently mouths Rocks' words, waggling his chin in mockery. "Billy agrees with whatever you say, Goodnight, so his opinion don't count for shit." 

"That is categorically not true," Robicheaux sniffs, which sets their bickering off to new heights. How Horne can sleep through it, Vasquez will never know. He gets out while he can, though he can still hear Faraday's muffled complaints through the door.

He lets his feet lead him outside until he can rest his elbows on the recently-repaired porch railing and gnaw on the end of his unlit cigar. The sun is beginning to sink toward the horizon, the day's last rays bringing townsfolk in from range, field, and river. The schoolteacher and his son Anthony pass by with friendly nods and smiles for him, and he's struck by a sudden sense of how much he doesn't belong amidst these people rebuilding their lives.

Now that Faraday is reliably awake and complaining when Vasquez visits the makeshift infirmary, it's harder to avoid thinking about what's going to happen after he leaves Rose Creek. By necessity he'll have to, sooner rather than later, but even with the money from the town his options are limited. Gather supplies and head back into the hills, alone, and be glad at least Chisolm won't be hunting him while he slowly loses his mind to isolation, or try his luck in the next town and the next until it runs out and he's strung up by the neck after making some asshole bounty hunter $500 richer.

Chisolm finds him there, staring into the deepening twilight. "Why the long face? Missing your old bunkmate?"

It takes a Vasquez a second to catch Chisolm's meaning: the corpse in the rundown shack he'd been squatting in before all this began what feels like a lifetime ago. "My dead friend, you mean? No, no, he was not much of a conversationalist." They share a grim sort of smile before Vasquez admits, "I was thinking I have stayed too long."

"Hm," says Chisolm, shifting the basket he's holding to one arm. "You're helping rebuild the church, aren't you?"

"Sí."

"Stick around 'til that's done. I might have something, but I reckon I shouldn't bring it up until the rest of 'em won't fall to pieces getting out of bed."

Vasquez's eyebrows fly up. "I can do that."

Chisolm nods as if asking an outlaw to stay is a normal thing to do. "Why don't you head on back to Mrs Frankel's house and get the pot of soup she kindly cooked up for our invalids?"

Whatever face he makes gets another sliver of a smile from Chisolm, but he does as he's asked, his thoughts a little lighter than before. Any charitable feelings he has about Chisolm vanish after roughly ten steps with the hot, heavy pot of soup in his hands. His arm is aching something fierce by the time he makes it back, but he's pretty sure it's not bleeding. Mostly.

"You don't get bread, Faraday, you get soup," Chisolm is saying when Vasquez enters the room and makes a beeline to deposit his burden on the rickety table. The others have all gathered in the small sickroom, as they tend to do around suppertime. "On account of your perforated insides."

As Faraday visibly works up a head of steam over bread, Vasquez settles into his customary spot nearby, close enough to prop up his booted feet at the end of the bed. Faraday normally complains and makes a feeble attempt to kick Vasquez off with his good leg, but he's too up in arms to bother tonight.

"I'm about to perforate someone else's insides, I swear to God. The doc said that nearly a week ago, Sam, come _on_." Unmoved, Chisolm ladles the soup into bowls and passes them to Rocks to distribute. "And why'd you make Vas carry it? He got shot _in the arm_." When that draws a spectacular lack of reaction from everyone, Faraday tries again: "Red ain't gonna eat it, are ya, Red?"

Red Harvest stares Faraday dead in the eye and slurps down a steaming spoonful, stone-faced, which already has Vasquez snickering, but he loses it entirely at the betrayal on Faraday's face when Red Harvest follows it up by stuffing half a roll in his mouth. Horne and Robicheaux start chuckling next, and it's all downhill from there. 

"You don't even _like_ bread, you little shit," Faraday howls over all the laughter. 

Red Harvest swallows, grimaces, and says, "I know," which cracks even Rocks' composure.

Probably only Vasquez can hear Faraday's muttered, "Real funny, mockin' the wounded," but something in his expression has lightened.

"Sweet merciful Jesus, I think I tore out all my stitches," Robicheaux says once the room's wound down, wiping a tear from his eye. As far as Vasquez is concerned, Robicheaux deserves Rocks' immediate insistence on setting supper aside to check his wound.

He looks sidelong at Faraday, who's watching the pair across the room with a peculiar expression and completely ignoring his food. "I'll eat it if you won't," Vasquez offers, making a grab for Faraday's bowl and getting rapped across the knuckles with a spoon for his trouble. 

"Hell no, muchacho."

His limited options are the simplest explanation for why he's still in Rose Creek, but the more complicated version is glaring at a bowl of soup like it's insulted his mother, his horse, his whiskey, and his poker skills.

***

Vasquez has a shadow. 

Several of them, actually, but one is particularly tenacious, always lurking at the edge of whatever task that needs doing at the church until Vasquez inevitably takes pity on the boy and gives him something to do. Most of the townsfolk are busy setting their own houses and stores to rights, leaving the church mostly to Vasquez and the preacher, so Anthony's help isn't unwelcome—he just has no idea why the boy insists on being near him. The last thing he remembers saying to the kid hadn't been particularly kind, and yet Anthony's always there, ready to fetch or carry or learn how to use a new tool.

The other children aren't nearly so persistent, but they're scampering around more often than not, speaking in hushed whispers to each other until one of them is bold enough to approach him directly.

"Why are your guns so shiny?"

"How did you get so tall?"

"What does me-air-da mean?"

It's a rare day he doesn't end up giving a practical Spanish lesson among the charred pews. (He does not tell them what mierda means.) The piping chorus of, "Adiós, señor!" that rings out after he puts away his tools for the day gets more smiles than frowns from the adults of the town.

It doesn't take more than a week after Chisolm asks him to stay for Vasquez to find Faraday on the saloon porch one such evening, his head tipped back against the chair he's slumped in. Vasquez's gaze trails up Faraday's neck without conscious decision; he can't help but wonder if he'd left marks there, now faded and lost amidst everything Faraday has been through since.

(He'd gladly leave more, given a chance.)

When he's close enough to nudge Faraday's foot with the toe of his boot, the lines on Faraday's face tell the story of a man with many regrets and being where he is is the biggest of the lot.

"All right there, güero?"

Faraday cracks an eye open. "I honestly do not know. Do me a favor and tell me if my insides are still my insides. I'd rather not have my own guts say 'I told you so.'"

Obligingly, Vasquez flips Faraday's unbuttoned vest out of the way to gently peek at the bandages under Faraday's shirt. "No blood," he reports, knuckles brushing against Faraday's stomach as he tugs the shirt back down.

"Good." Faraday sucks in a breath. "Great. Now do me another favor and tell Red to stop smearin' that green goop on me. Smells like he's thinking about roasting me."

Vasquez leans against the post opposite Faraday's chair, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. "How many favors do you think you get?"

"As many as you'll give, I s'pose."

Vasquez swallows and fumbles in his pocket for a cigarillo and his matches.

Here on the porch in full view of the town is the most alone they've been since the night before the battle. There's a lot Vasquez should maybe say, but the only thing he can muster up the courage to do is keep Faraday company a while longer. The things a man is willing to resort to with the threat of death hanging over him aren't always things he'd do under normal circumstances. He gets the cigarillo lit and busies himself with smoking, staring out at the road without seeing much of anything.

Behind him, Faraday sighs. "What're you still doin' here, anyway?"

Vasquez stiffens, but there's nothing in the question but curiosity. "Chisolm asked me to stay. Said he wanted to talk to all of us."

"Did he? Huh." Vasquez hears Faraday shift and hiss. The strain is evident in his voice when he continues, "Somehow I don't think he's gonna suggest we all start homesteading. What about after that? You gonna go back to wherever you came from?"

"Only ghosts there for me." Vasquez shrugs and exhales a plume of smoke. "I will go back to trying not to get caught."

"Oh. Right," Faraday says, like he'd forgotten there's a warrant out there with Vasquez's name on it. He's quiet so long that Vasquez assumes he's passed out from the exertion of breaking out of the sickroom, but then he starts up again with the measured cadence of storytelling. "Y'know, a while back I heard about a pair of fellas who went around swindlin' the law for a good year or so. One of 'em was an outlaw with a few hundred on his head, or so it went, and the other—well, he claimed to be a bounty hunter. These fellas, they'd go from sheriff to sheriff, the hunter turning in the outlaw for a decent sum, the outlaw gettin' strung up in the main square of town. But the hunter'd be hiding out somewhere close by to shoot through the rope in the nick of time. They'd make their escape, split the money the hunter'd collected, then move on to the next town."

"There is no way that is true, güero," Vasquez says to cover for the slow flip his stomach is doing, roiling on the line between nausea and something else. "I would not trust my own mother to do that."

It's Faraday's turn to shrug. "S'what I heard."

Vasquez huffs out a laugh. "How drunk were you when you heard it?"

Faraday's laugh cuts off with a wince. "Not hallucinate a leprechaun drunk, but pretty close."

The conversation lulls and Vasquez smokes in silence until a gaggle of his shadows comes down the road. "Buenas tardes!" they chirp when they see him, some of them with passable accents. He nods and tips his hat in return.

"What the hell," comes Faraday's voice from behind him, soft with bewilderment. "Am I hallucinatin' now?"

"They are better at Spanish than you, cabrón."

Vasquez waits for the litany of horribly-pronounced muchachos and ándales that are surely about to assault his ears, but Faraday stays quiet. He looks over his shoulder to say—something, he's not sure what—but there's an uncharacteristically troubled look on Faraday's face that Vasquez can't begin to parse.

Neither of them speaks until Chisolm happens across them and gives Faraday a singularly unimpressed look for being out of bed. Vasquez raises his open palms to wash his hands of any responsibility for Faraday's whereabouts, yet somehow ends up recruited to help the man back inside. 

"You are worse than a soup pot, in case you were wondering." He struggles to get an arm around Faraday in a way that won't jar any of his injuries.

Faraday shows his gratitude by purposely throwing them off balance so Vasquez hits the wall hard. "I wasn't, but thanks."

***

"Up again, güero?" Vasquez asks when he finds Faraday on the porch a few days later. It's good to see him on his feet, even if he suspects the post Faraday is leaning on is doing more than its share of keeping him upright. 

"If I have to stay in that room a minute more I'm likely to start shootin'. I ain't that much worse off than Horne, and he's been up an' socializing for _days_."

That's not strictly true, but Faraday looks like he's spoiling for an argument, so Vasquez gives him one. "Maybe Horne is just tougher than you," he says solely to watch Faraday's face pinch into an indignant scowl. 

The scowl melts into something resembling good humor when Vasquez wordlessly offers him a cigarillo and a light. "D'you reckon all that sleepin' he did was actually hibernation?"

Vasquez laughs and Faraday grins around the cigarillo before magnanimously waving him toward the saloon. "C'mon, muchacho, Sam's gearin' up to have that talk with all of us. Think I caught him practicing in the mirror earlier. Should be inspiring."

Faraday is surprisingly steady on his feet, if slow, but Vasquez still has to make a conscious effort not to hover at his elbow. Experience has shown that Faraday's not the type to accept help graciously. There are two empty chairs at what'd become _their_ table in the nights before the battle; one scrapes back conspicuously at Faraday's approach, kicked by an unseen foot. Faraday rolls his eyes but sits with an almost-suppressed wince. Vasquez takes the seat between Faraday and Red Harvest, careful not to jostle Faraday's outstretched leg, and they all turn to Chisolm expectantly. 

"Here we all are," Robicheaux prompts with an aborted gesture that ends with his good arm slung across the back of Rocks' chair. "What's on your mind, Sam?"

Chisolm cocks his head. "Oh, a lotta things, but only a few that matter right now. The first being, and I think I speak for all of us when I ask: what in the good goddamn did you do to that Gatling gun, Faraday? Red Harvest said there were pieces of it a good quarter-mile out."

A frown flashes across Faraday's face, but it's quickly replaced by a grin and a wink. "Magic trick."

"Hell of a trick," Chisolm says mildly and lets the subject drop. "Now, the good people of this town have been talking about electing a new sheriff, and I've a mind to get out before they try to hand me the job."

"Justice in the hands of the righteous," Horne murmurs.

"Plenty of righteous in their own folk. I don't think they'd do wrong by electing Mrs Cullen, but that's my opinion," Chisolm replies. "If any of you have a mind to stay, I'm sure you'd be more than welcome, but that's not for me. I believe there's still good to be done out there, probably other aspiring Bogues to cut down to size, and I'd be glad for the company if any of you want to come along. It's not my business if you feel like you've got some makin' up to do for past sins, or if you just want license to shoot at fellas. Don't need no explanations."

There's a communal rustle as nearly everyone at the table finds they need to exchange a glance with someone else, but no one speaks.

"Now, I'm not gonna go 'round the table and ask your intentions; a man needs time to think, after all, but I'll wait a while near the church Friday morning before I head out. No ill will if you go your own way, but I imagine I'll be in Amador City in three or four months' time if there are any changes of heart." Chisolm looks around the table, meeting each of their gazes in turn. "It's been an honor. Ain't any other six guns I'd trust more at my back."

"That's mighty sweet an' all, Sam, but I want one thing clear while we've got witnesses," Faraday says, resting his elbows on the table. "My horse is mine again, right?"

Chisolm casts his gaze to the ceiling as the rest of them chuckle. "Yes, Faraday, your horse is yours."

"Good." Faraday nods and sits back. Vasquez nearly startles out of his chair when something brushes his shoulder, but it's only Faraday straightening his good arm. It draws Robicheaux's attention, though, and Vasquez tenses under the unexpected scrutiny. 

"Taking an outlaw with you to hunt outlaws doesn't seem like the brightest move, Sam," Robicheaux says, then, more apologetically, "Nothing personal, son."

Vasquez waves him off. He's honestly curious about Chisolm's reasoning, too. Chisolm doesn't seem like the type to include him in a misguided attempt at being polite.

Chisolm shrugs. "If we're bringing in criminals, no one's going to look to our crew for more. I admit that ruse'll work better with more of us, but I'm sure we could manage."

"Loco," Vasquez mutters. He's taken worse gambles with his life.

Unexpectedly, Faraday pipes up. "I was thinkin': what if we ask the Rose Creek folk to make a grave for him? Put one of them Blackstones in it if anyone gets too curious."

Barely registering Chisolm's thoughtful frown or Horne's protest about disrespecting the dead, Vasquez looks at Faraday, who looks right back, mouth set in a firm line as if daring Vasquez to protest a plan that'd help keep him in the land of the living.

"Couldn't hurt, but you'll have a hard time getting folk to agree to it," Chisolm eventually says.

"Psh. Mrs Cullen would put Bogue himself in it."

"She would, at that. I'll talk to her, maybe the preacher, too, see what can be done."

Vasquez has no idea what to say to any of that, so he sticks a cigar between his teeth and chews.

Rocks hums, but it's Robicheaux who speaks up again. "My arm's not up to shooting yet, and Billy and I have some business to attend to now that we've come into the funds, but," he pauses to glance at Rocks' placid expression once more, though what he sees in it Vasquez could never guess, "I think we'll see you in Amador City."

Chisolm inclines his head. "Be good to have you around again, Goodnight, not just for shooting. You can charm your way outta near anything, and I reckon that'll come in handy. I forgot how much I missed your sorry ass." They share a grin, their years of friendship evident in their faces. 

Despite Chisolm's assurance, they seem to be going around the table stating their intentions. Red Harvest nods once. Horne mumbles something about spending time with the living, which makes as much sense as anything he says. With Robicheaux and Rocks' plan already laid out, the group turns to Faraday.

When he notices everyone's attention, Faraday wrinkles his nose. "Reckon I'm gonna think on it," is all he says.

Vasquez is careful to keep the disappointment off his face when everyone looks to him for his answer, crossing his arms over his chest to rub at the new scar on his bicep with his thumb. He knows he should say yes; a better offer isn't likely to turn up. He wants to say yes.

But he wants Faraday to say yes, too.

He looks down at the cigar he's rolling between his fingers. From the corner of his eye he sees Faraday watching him. "I think... maybe. I will do more thinking, too."

"Well, I've said my piece," Chisolm says. "How about some food?"

***

By Thursday, there's a body in a grave marked _Vasquez_ , and he's made up his mind to go with Chisolm.

He's considered asking Faraday outright what his plans are, since Faraday had no compunctions about asking Vasquez why he was still in town, but he's difficult to pin down away from the others now that he's mobile. Vasquez finally resorts to asking his shadows if any of them know where the man's been getting off to and gets a prompt answer: the livery. None of them know what he's doing there, but Vasquez can guess. With Faraday's still-healing injuries, dealing with heavy tack and mounting must be painful, if not outright impossible. 

His suspicions are confirmed when he ducks through the wide stable doors and finds Faraday swearing a blue streak at his saddle as Wild Jack sidesteps uneasily at his rider's agitation.

"New plan," Faraday mutters to the horse. "I learn to ride bareback like Red. And never use my dick again if you go faster than a walk. Which you will, because Mattie has no business breakin' broncs."

Vasquez cautiously approaches, giving Jack a wide berth. "A shame. You will have to pass on the title of world's greatest lover."

Faraday jumps and whirls. "Sweet Jesus, you're like a cat. Warn a man, dang." With a move nowhere near as stealthy as he probably thinks it is, Faraday nudges his saddle farther behind a crate with his heel. Given the size of the crate, it's still pitifully visible. "And I ain't tried it yet, so the title's still mine."

"Eh, debatable."

Faraday squints at him for a second before turning away to grab a brush off a hook. "Are we, uh, acknowledgin' that that happened?"

Since Vasquez would like to do more than _acknowledge_ , he throws caution to the wind. "Sí, why not?"

"Dunno. Some fellas get squirrely about it, and you _do_ like shootin' things an awful lot. I got enough new holes without you adding to 'em."

"Of all the things I might want to shoot you for, that does not make the list."

Faraday scowls. "You want somethin', or did you only come in here to sneak up on me?"

"There are many things that I want, güero." He shifts his weight to his back foot, crosses his arms over his chest, and deliberately looks Faraday up and down. Faraday straightens under the attention, the light in his eyes definitely more interested than defensive. "Maybe you can start with telling me what you are doing in here that has your devil-horse halfway to spooked."

The smirk that'd been growing on Faraday's lips falls away. "He ain't—" Faraday glances over his shoulder and catches sight of Jack's pinned ears. "Okay, he is. But no, I don't wanna start there, nosy bastard."

Vasquez nods; he'd expected as much. "You going with Chisolm tomorrow?"

The furrow between Faraday's eyebrows deepens. "Thought about it."

"And?"

"What's it matter? You going?"

"Planning to," Vasquez answers with an ease he doesn't feel.

Vasquez can practically read each response Faraday considers and dismisses as they race across his face. Finally, he admits, "I can't saddle my dang horse."

Common sentiment in cattle country is if a man can't care for his horse, he isn't fit to own it, but Faraday's situation is temporary. "No one is going to fault you for not being able to lift a fifty pound saddle after being shot twice, güero. Ask for help."

Faraday sneers.

"All right, do not ask for help. I will just give it." Faraday doesn't stop him when Vasquez hauls the saddle out from behind the crate, but he does pause to eye Jack with no small amount of apprehension. "Is he going to bite me if I do this?"

"Probably... not?" Faraday decides with an inspiring lack of confidence.

"Te voy a morder si me muerde. Tienes suerte que me caes bien," Vasquez mutters as he gets to work.

"You've said that to me before."

Vasquez freezes for a second, caught out, before he realizes how ridiculous it is to feel that way. Faraday hadn't understood Spanish the first time Vasquez had admitted to liking him, either. He hums and pretends to be absorbed in tightening the cinch.

"Askin' you what it means won't get me anywhere," Faraday muses. "Maybe I'll try your pint-sized admirers."

"Good luck with that, güero." Vasquez snorts and wipes his palms on his pants, blessedly free of horse-related injuries. He can't help but startle a little when Faraday is _right there_ , one hand on Jack's withers, the other scratching at a scab on his jaw.

"Now that my horse is saddled for no particular reason, how about we go back to that other thing you wanted?" As if his leer isn't clear, he hooks his fingers around Vasquez's belt loops and tugs. Vasquez goes easily. 

"I did not say anything about this," Vasquez murmurs against Faraday's lips.

Faraday calls his bluff by making to pull away and Vasquez folds, hand darting out to reel Faraday back in and crush their mouths together. It lasts long enough to leave Vasquez breathing heavily and remind him how good it'd been the first time around.

Faraday licks his lips. "If you're done tellin' tales, let's take this somewhere less likely t'get walked in on." A pause. "After you unsaddle my horse. And only if you promise not to elbow me anywhere tender."

"Me?" Vasquez scoffs. "You were the one who almost put your knee—"

"I did nothin' of the sort," Faraday argues for arguing's sake, already heading toward the wide doors. "Hurry up, will ya?"

Grumbling to keep a stupid smile off his face, Vasquez makes quick work of the saddle and makes sure Jack is settled, if confused by the sudden turn of events, in his stall. It's still plenty bright out, making Vasquez squint when he comes out of the livery, but Faraday's slouched figure against the boarding house's railing is unmistakable. 

He's almost there when someone calls out, "Mr Vasquez!"

If it'd been anyone over the age of twelve he would've kept going, but it's Anthony's voice. Hating himself a little, he stops. "Sí, chico?"

"I know you're leaving tomorrow, so I—here." Anthony presses something small into Vasquez's palm when he obligingly extends his hand. "I made it. For you."

"Gracias," Vasquez says gravely. Many of the townsfolk have left gifts for the seven of them, mostly practical things like clothes to replace their torn and bloody ones, kerchiefs, a mended bridle, a deck of cards. This is—different. Before he can inspect the little thing, Anthony's taken off down the street, dust puffing up under his heels.

It's a small wooden church bell, carved with all the skill a child could muster. Vasquez runs his thumb over an accidental notch in the lip of the slightly lopsided bell and doesn't quite know how to feel. 

When he looks up, Faraday isn't slouching anymore. He is, in fact, staring off into the middle distance with none of the eagerness Vasquez had expected to see. Stride broken, Vasquez approaches cautiously, tucking the bell in his vest pocket. He reaches out to lay a hand on Faraday's shoulder, but his fingers curl uselessly midair when something stops him. "Güero?"

"Y'ever want kids?"

Thrown by the question and as much as the way Faraday won't look at him, Vasquez fumbles for an answer. "Another lifetime ago, maybe a little. It is not possible now." If it ever had been, for all that he likes children. There's always been too much wanderer in him. Work as a vaquero had almost satisfied the itch, but there's no going back to that life, either. It's not a conversation he wants to have, especially when they've got much more enjoyable things to be doing. "Are we..."

Faraday sucks in a breath and finally looks Vasquez in the eye again, but the smile he pastes on is so patently false Vasquez nearly recoils in the face of it. The spark of desire that'd crackled back to life in the livery has gone out, though Vasquez can't fathom the cause. Nothing on his end; he'd gladly see Faraday in his bed yet. But the echo of want he's sure he saw is gone, replaced by whatever the hell this is.

He's trying to find the words to give Faraday an out of their arrangement without letting on how disappointed he is—and without it sounding like a goading challenge—when Chisolm mercifully appears and does it for him. "Faraday. Vasquez."

"What're you roundin' us up for now, Sam?" Faraday asks in an approximation of his normal tone.

"Goodnight and I thought'd be nice if we took one last meal together at the Imperial. If you see Horne, let him know, would you?"

"I'll find him," Vasquez volunteers and starts toward the Frankel house before Chisolm can leave him alone with Faraday again. He doesn't look back.

Horne is indeed at the Frankel house, holding a baby and looking equal parts enchanted and heartbroken. Vasquez clears his throat and jerks a thumb in the direction of the saloon. "Supper, if you want to come." Horne nods and hands the baby to an older girl like he's got an armful of gold.

"You don't want to stay?" Vasquez can't help asking as they cross the road. 

"Wouldn't be the fair thing to do. I had a family. They're still with me." Horne taps his chest with a bandaged hand.

Vasquez nods. He'll never be able to understand, but he can show some respect for the loss. 

Supper is a less rowdy affair than a few of the ones they'd had before Bogue, but they're still plenty loud. There's enough whiskey for Vasquez to shake off whatever'd happened with Faraday, at least for a while. It helps that Faraday is back to himself, no trace of false cheer. Vasquez lets himself hope, a little, that the evening could pick up where it left off.

Thinking about later leads his whiskey-soaked thoughts slipping toward morning. He waits for a lull in the conversation Chisolm's having with Robicheaux and Rocks to lean in and ask, his voice low, "You are sure you want me to come with you?"

Chisolm doesn't look surprised. "Wouldn't have made the offer if I wasn't."

Vasquez sits back with a nod and a ghost of a smile. He fishes in his pockets for a cigar and finds the little bell instead, rubbing his thumb over the lip of it before tucking it away again. Rose Creek isn't a bad place, but it's not for the likes of him. 

As the night goes on, Vasquez finds himself saying less and less and watching Faraday more and more for some sort of sign that he's thinking of putting down his bottle and heading to bed ( _Vasquez's_ bed), but he seems content to stay as long as there's company. To that end, Vasquez pushes back from the table shortly after Horne turns in for the night and takes his leave.

The ground swims a little under him as he trudges across the road to the boarding house, the effort of keeping his hopes up weighing him down. He perks up when he hears the saloon door open again, accompanied by the sound of hurried footsteps. He wants, too much, for it to be Faraday, but it could be anyone.

"Vas."

He's barely started to turn when Faraday's on him, fisting both hands in his vest and driving him against the nearest wall. He's not sure if they're going to fight or fuck; all he wants is to get his hands on Faraday, one way or another. He gets hands and more when Faraday leans in for a searing kiss, lips hot, tongue hotter. It goes on and on, so long that Vasquez is grateful for the wall at his back for all that he foggily resents that he seems to be the only one of the pair of them getting pushed against them.

It ends as abruptly as it began, Faraday's lips spit-slick and red in the dim light when he pulls away. He doesn't say anything, though it looks like he might right up until he backs up a step and practically flees toward the warm glow of the Imperial.

Vasquez understands, too late, that it'd been a goodbye sort of kiss.

***

The next morning, Faraday is gone.

Vasquez knows it in his head when he doesn't hear any rustling or swearing behind the door of Faraday's room when he passes, but his heart only begins to believe when he sees Wild Jack's empty stall. He tries not to think on it as he saddles his own horse, but it wouldn't surprise him if Faraday had somehow used sheer stubborn force of will to saddle his beast himself to get out of town before the rest of them woke.

It doesn't matter. Faraday is gone.

The last shred of hope his foolish heart had insisted on clinging to rips away when he rides up to the church and sees only Chisolm, Red Harvest, and Horne mounted and waiting. Robicheaux and Rocks are there, too, presumably to see them off before they head out themselves.

Chisolm looks up from his conversation with Robicheaux when he hears Vasquez's approach, peering past his shoulder like something's coming up the road behind him. There's nothing there when Vasquez twists around. 

"Faraday?" Chisolm asks.

Vasquez shakes his head and takes the carved bell out of his pocket to run his thumb over the notch instead of rubbing at the ache in his chest. "Went his own way."

"Hm. Shame, though I've got a hunch he'll turn up again sooner or later."

Vasquez shrugs. Whatever he'd thought could be between them, he'd been wrong. It's not the worst mistake he's ever made, no matter how it feels, and it won't be the last. He's still breathing, still free, and that counts for a lot.

Robicheaux pats Chisolm's horse. "'The world is a scene of constant leave-taking,'" he quotes from somewhere. "Until Amador City, mes amis."

They cast long shadows to the west as they depart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts: 
>   * The story Faraday tells about the bounty hunter and the outlaw is from _The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly_.
>   * Goodnight's quote at the end is from R. M. Ballantyne.
> 



	2. Chapter 2

**YUBA CITY**

Vasquez spits his mouthful back into his tin cup, grimacing. "Did you let Horne make the coffee again?"

Across the campfire, Red scoffs. "I don't _let_ him do anything."

"If you wake up before dawn like he does, you are supposed to stop him," Vasquez says, not for the first time.

"Tastes like piss no matter who makes it," Red replies, also not for the first time.

That is not true. Vasquez and Sam can both make a perfectly fine pot of coffee. Horne, on the other hand, makes it so strong a rock wouldn't sink in it. It's possible Red likes to watch Vasquez and Sam suffer, but bickering over it has become a well-worn track over the past three months.

(It almost doesn't remind Vasquez of Faraday anymore, helped along by the fact that Red will flat out walk away if he finds Vasquez annoying enough. Faraday would've gone toe to toe with him rather than given a single thought to removing himself from the situation.) 

"Here." Vasquez holds his cup out. "You can use it for your..." he mimics painting lines down his cheeks and grins when Red rolls his eyes and dumps the cup's contents onto the dirt.

Sam comes back from stowing his gear and pours himself a cup. Vasquez keeps his mouth shut and watches. He is maybe too obvious about it, because Sam stops with his cup partway to his lips and eyeballs it.

"Jack made it, didn't he." It's not a question. Sam sighs and looks like he's seriously considering drinking it anyway. "Hey, Jack!"

A faint, "What?" echoes back from God knows where. Vasquez has given up trying to figure out how such a big man can move so quietly.

"Coffee is not supposed to need chewing!"

Vasquez chuckles, then remembers Sam isn't the only one who will go without. He stares into his empty cup and sighs. "We need a mule to carry more coffee. And another pot. One for him, one for us."

"I am beginning to think that's not a bad idea," Sam agrees. "I'll chip in. Might be we can find us an animal in Amador City, 'cause Lord knows I am not dealing with Goodnight Robicheaux without coffee. Hope you like chicory."

Red mutters some other choice comments on the terrible things the rest of them eat and drink and leaves to check his snares for breakfast. Vasquez should help, but... "You are sure they will be there?"

"I've known Goodnight a long, long time. If he's still breathin', there'll at least be a letter." 

When Horne lumbers into view a while later, they eat and break camp the usual way, all brisk efficiency after so much practice. They've stayed in their fair share of towns over the past few months, but with two of them preferring the open sky and Vasquez preferring to not look over his shoulder every minute in civilization, they camp more often than not. It suits Vasquez fine, when Horne isn't the first to get his paws on the coffee pot.

Having Robicheaux and Rocks rejoin their number might change that; Robicheaux had seemed the type to prefer the comfort of towns. But a crew of six will net them more interesting jobs, which will hopefully bring a little more excitement than tracking down bounties and guarding stagecoaches and wagons. They've been keeping their ears to the ground for bigger troubles, but nothing's turned up yet.

Not that he's _eager_ to take on another private army. Eager to have that feeling of making a difference, maybe, but the army is unnecessary. Doesn't mean he _wouldn't_ , should the opportunity arise. If Sam pointed them at such a problem, he'd be there with both guns blazing. He has yet to decide whether he seeks atonement or belonging, but he knows this: Sam had looked at a man he knew to be an outlaw, a killer, and offered both. Vasquez is not so stupid as to walk away from that.

He wrinkles his nose and tugs his hat lower, then reaches into his pocket to rub the wooden bell's notch, as has become his habit when his thoughts start down a path that inevitably leads to Faraday. Faraday's been out of his life for almost twice as long as he'd been in it; that he still crosses Vasquez's mind at all is just as annoying as the man himself had been.

With nothing in front of them but a week of riding to Amador City, Vasquez has too much time to think.

If the others notice his mood, none of them mention it, though there is a miraculous streak of mornings where either Vasquez or Chisolm are the first to get their hands on the coffee pot.

Trouble finds them in Yuba City, several days out from the meet-up.

 _Them_ , but it's on Vasquez's head: a bounty hunter with a copy of his warrant.

Vasquez is leaning against the fence and watching the horses they've turned out into the public corral for any sign of trouble when he hears a man in spurs saunter up behind them. Even with Sam and Horne bracketing him, it takes a lot of effort not to turn around immediately.

Forgoing any sort of introduction, the man says, "Your friend there bears a resemblance to someone I'm lookin' for." Vasquez grits his teeth and doesn't go for his gun when he hears the crinkle of a warrant being unfolded. "You Vas-kwess?"

"Can I see that?" Sam asks. A moment later he's tapping Vasquez on the shoulder to hold the warrant up next to his face, bold as brass. "I don't know, that doesn't much look like him. What do you think, Jack? Red?"

Red doesn't bother giving the warrant even a cursory glance, opting instead to turn an unwavering stare on the bounty hunter. "Face is all wrong."

"They are both wearing hats," Horne says, touching the brim of his and then casually resting his hand on the handle of his tomahawk. "So'm I, though."

Vasquez bares his teeth at the bounty hunter, who has the look of a man slowly realizing he's bitten off more than he can chew but isn't smart enough to do anything about it except barrel on. "I heard you call him Vas-kwess."

"Lotta people named Vasquez, my friend. In fact, I saw a man who looked a bit like this here picture a few towns north. I'm Sam Chisolm, by the way." Sam sticks his hand out. "Duly sworn warrant officer of the circuit court in Wichita, Kansas. I'm also a licensed peace officer in the Indian Territories, Arkansas, Nebraska, and seven other states. I don't think a wanted man would keep company with a lawman like me, do you?"

The bounty hunter stares at Sam's hand, then slowly takes it. "I... no. Reckon not."

"Well, I'm glad we've cleared up this misunderstanding." Sam smiles. "Good day to you."

The man hesitates, nods, and wanders back up the street. Vasquez sucks in a breath through his teeth and spits out a few low-voiced Spanish curses, nearly vibrating with the need to do _something_ —preferably violent and permanent.

Sam claps him on the shoulder so hard he sways, the touch both grounding and restraining. "Jack, why don't you and Red keep an eye on our new friend there while we locate provisions?"

They agree and Red disappears so fast Vasquez couldn't say where he went. Horne ambles up the main road like there's something in this small town worth seeing, pulling out a strip of jerky from one of his pockets to gnaw on. Sam uses his grip on Vasquez's shoulder to bend him down a few inches and speak in his ear. "It's handled. He's a man trying to make a living. Not too bright, so likely he won't be at it long, but the middle of town's no place to start something." Sam pats his shoulder a few times and lets go. "Stay close. We'll be out of here in no time. Haring off before we get what we came for won't do any good."

Easy for Sam to say since it's not him on that damn paper, but Vasquez makes himself nod.

Yuba City is well out of sight before the cold pit in his gut begins to warm. That night they make camp against a bluff and Vasquez stares into the fire, rolling the wooden bell between his palms as the others move around him.

Until Red kicks him in the knee.

He jerks and glares. "Ow, cabrón, what was that for?"

"Reminder."

"Reminder? Of what?"

Red declines to say anything further, but Vasquez, for whatever reason, actually feels a little better. Maybe he hadn't quite believed he wouldn't be given up to the first bounty hunter that came calling despite how he's still breathing as a free man. If they're really going to stand by him, he owes them the story of the rancher and the ranger, but when he tries the words trip and tangle on his tongue.

Across the fire, Horne is watching him with surprising empathy. "We don't need to know your sins any more than you need to know ours," he says in that strange way of his, part wise, part mystifying. "What we all have, that's here and now. What came before is your business and the Lord's." 

"That said, we should maybe come up with some contingency plans for getting your too-tall ass outta hot water." Sam eyes Vasquez up and down, assessing. "I suppose losing the beard isn't an option."

Vasquez scrubs his palms along his jawline. "Not letting a barber hold anything sharp to my throat, amigo."

(Sam is the only one of them who visits town barbers with any regularity. Horne seems content with his bear-like appearance, and Red doesn't seem to need it, though he's plenty handy with a knife when it comes to keeping Vasquez's hair from getting to grabbable lengths.)

Sam nods and suggests, "Pick a new name?"

He shakes his head. While he understands what Sam is trying to do, his name and the medallion at his throat are what he has left of his family and he has no intention of parting with either.

"I had a feeling you wouldn't go for the easy options." Sam sighs. "All right, I've got a few other ideas..."

Vasquez wants to drink himself to sleep and not think about anything anymore, but he's not ungrateful for Sam's help. So he listens, nods in the right places, and in the morning he rides out with his lasso looped around the horn of his saddle, ready to feign being tied as a last resort. 

What he really needs is for someone to joke about it, treat the whole situation with irreverence instead of Sam's practical approach, but all three of his companions tend toward seriousness. Not that they're without humor, but—

Vasquez takes the bell out and pushes against the notch so hard it leaves an indent in his thumb.

***

**AMADOR CITY**

Amador City is the largest town Vasquez has set foot in in years and after what happened in Yuba, he rides in expecting trouble. Sam is in the lead with Vasquez just behind, Red and Horne flanking them. Most of the folk about town are more inclined to stare bug-eyed at Red, who appears oblivious to the attention, than Vasquez, who is comparatively unremarkable. They get a few wary nods, but there's no open hostility like they'd run into in smaller settlements less accustomed to travelers.

Horne scans the various notices stuck up outside the post office as Sam goes in to check for word from Robicheaux. There are a few he plucks from the board and folds carefully to tuck into his coat, but the poor likeness of Vasquez is thankfully nowhere in evidence.

"No messages," Sam reports, giving the noticeboard a once-over as well. "If I were Goodnight Robicheaux, where would I be?"

Wordlessly, Red points at a storefront up the road with the words _Mooney Saloon_ in fresh paint on its sign.

Sam chuckles. "Good place to start."

Amador City is large enough to boast four different saloons; they don't strike pay dirt until the third. Vasquez, keeping a wary eye on the street with Red while Sam and Horne check the interior, hears Sam's delighted greeting and pushes off the wall to go inside.

Then he hears it.

"He _ain't_ your horse, Sam, everyone heard you say it."

Vasquez freezes with one hand on the door, muscles locking up in a rush of disbelief. Red has to swerve around him to avoid a collision; he throws a mildly concerned look over his shoulder, but Vasquez can only shake his head as he forces one foot in front of the other.

"And here are the rest of our compatriots. Thought Sam mighta lost you boys," Robicheaux says, arms spread wide. Next to him, Rocks looks as close to pleased as Vasquez has seen since Robicheaux opened his eyes after the battle, but Vasquez can't focus on anything but Faraday, sprawled carelessly at the bar with a bottle at his elbow. Their eyes meet and awareness drops like a stone into the pit of Vasquez's stomach. Whatever he'd felt for Faraday in Rose Creek is still there, unchanged by their months apart, unchanged by Vasquez's efforts to banish the man from his thoughts, unchanged by Faraday's abrupt departure.

He is so stupid.

"Not for lack of tryin'," Sam is saying with a good-natured grin. "You seem to have un-lost our seventh yourselves."

"Well, now, that's a story and an opportunity all in one. Sit yourselves down and we'll get right into it, shall we?"

As it's early afternoon, the saloon is relatively empty, so they have their pick of spots. Vasquez plants himself between Red and Sam. He pulls out a cigar without lighting it, gnawing on the end while he tries not to stare at Faraday, who's still perched on his barstool and hasn't said a word since Vasquez came in.

Apparently determined to change that, Robicheaux pushes his chair back on two legs and beckons Faraday. "Joshua, are you going to get your sorry ass over here?"

Faraday scowls. "I told you not to call me that."

Rocks snorts. "Your mistake."

"I was drunk," Faraday protests, scooping his bottle closer like he's just remembered it. "You tell 'em, Goodnight, I'm busy."

 _Busy_ , Robicheaux mouths, incredulous, but Faraday's got his back to the room now, hunched over his bottle so all Vasquez can see in the mirror over the bar is the top of his head. The saloonkeeper doesn't look particularly pleased for the company.

"Get on with it, Goody."

"Don't rush me, chèr, I'm deciding where to start."

Rocks slides a glance at the bar and exhales a plume of smoke before holding his cigarette out to Robicheaux. "You want to start at the border of Arizona and Utah territories, so do it."

"That does sound like a good spot," Robicheaux decides. He takes a drag and passes the cigarette back. "So, Billy and I had taken care of our business and were on our way back west, meandering from town to town, keeping our hats in quick-draw contests and the like. Nothin' too out of the ordinary until we get to—oh, what was that place called?"

"Grafton," Rocks supplies.

"That's right, Grafton. A peculiar thing happened in Grafton. Despite there being less of an audience around than usual, our take on Billy's competition was a far sight higher than our average, and I'd swear on my daddy's grave I heard a few who'd bet against us cursing a good-for-nothing Irishman for saying he'd heard Billy Rocks'd been injured a few weeks back and wasn't as fast as he used to be."

"Not that part!" Faraday complains. "The _job_."

"I'm telling this story, Joshua. If you want to skip around, get your own gums a'flappin'."

Faraday subsides, grumbling.

"Curiously enough, Billy couldn't turn up hide nor hair of this cursed Irishman. We continued on our merry way to..."

"Silver Reef."

"Silver Reef, and, wouldn't you know it, the same dad-blasted thing happens. A bigger pot, more unhappy betters grumbling about an Irishman." Robicheaux stretches—Vasquez belatedly notices his sling is gone—and rests a hand on the back of Rocks' chair. "We finally caught up to him in..."

"Hamblin."

"Hamblin—how _do_ you remember all these little places?" The look Robicheaux turns on Rocks is openly, painfully affectionate. Rocks shrugs, one corner of his mouth turning up. Vasquez wants a drink. He glances at the bottles lined up behind the bar but ducks his head before his gaze can wander. "We went in to the hotel to acquire accommodations, and there I laid eyes on our mysterious benefactor, drunkenly bamboozlin' the locals with card tricks."

"Sounds about right," Sam murmurs.

"Well, fair's fair and all, so I thought it only polite to join in and share a bit of our profits. Let me tell you, do not play cards with Joshua unless you are ravingly discontent with having full pockets." Robicheaux keeps talking over Rocks' snort. "Imagine my surprise when he was still there the next morning, though I suspect the hangover might've had something to do with that. So, between complaining about the sun existing and finding the bottom of the bottle of whiskey he was having for breakfast, Joshua tells us about a gang of horse thieves he'd heard about, a bunch of right slippery sons of bitches disturbing the peace of a town over in New Mexico territory for the past few months. Y'all know as well as I do that no one in their right mind'd so much as piss on a horse thief were he on fire, but thus far these particular fellows have eluded western justice."

Sam rubs his chin. "Must be some reason they've been riskin' terrorizing the same area so long."

The empty chair at their table gets yanked bank with a screech and Faraday drops unceremoniously into it, bottle thumping on the table. "Horse ranch over thataways. Got some valable—valyubble—some good bloodlines."

"Why hello, Joshua, how kind of you to grace us with your presence."

"Goodnight, I swear t'God, if I weren't s'fond of not gettin' hairpinned to death..." He takes a long pull from his bottle. " _Anyway_ , they're offerin' a few hundred per thief, however many there turn out to be. Thought I'd bring it to you and yours, Sam."

"I'm sure me and mine'd welcome another set of hands with a job like that. If we do this, you planning to come along?"

Faraday starts to answer but stops short, inexplicably catching Vasquez's eye again before pointedly looking away. Vasquez swallows. "Reckon so. I did the work of findin' it, didn't I?"

Sam's attention shifts to the rest of them. "Objections? We'd have quite a journey in front of us, and not an easy one, at that, with no guarantee these thieves'd still be about by the time we get there."

Horne and Red are quick to agree.

Vasquez shouldn't be thinking of getting any closer to Texas, where his warrant originated. He shrugs. "I'm in."

Before Robicheaux and Rocks can have their say, Faraday butts in. "Should you be?"

"Should I be what?"

"Y'don't got some kid'n wife waitin' somewhere?"

Everyone turns to stare at Faraday, who might as well have proclaimed himself a teetotaler for all the sense he's making. "How long do you think babies take to make, cabrón?"

"Hell, I dunno. What year's it?" Faraday takes another pull from his bottle. "Don't you Mexicans breed like rabbits?"

Vasquez stares. Faraday drinks.

"All right then." Robicheaux pushes back from the table and jerks his head at Rocks. They flank Faraday, who stares blankly up at the pair of them but goes willingly to his feet. "Billy and I will take this one to his room so he can sleep off some of his stupid."

"Ain'stupid," Faraday slurs.

"Uh huh," Robicheaux says. "As you seem to be aiming to get yourself shot instead of hairpinned, I've got to respectfully disagree with that assessment."

While Faraday is distracted trying to puzzle out Robicheaux's meaning, Rocks slips the bottle out of his clutches. "I'll carry this for you." As soon as Faraday's back is turned, Rocks sets it on the table in front of Red, whose lip curls.

The three of them make their noisy way upstairs, a litany of thumps and swears and one over-loud, "I ain't!" for accompaniment, all perfectly audible to everyone in the saloon. The four left at the table exchange glances. Vasquez makes a conscious effort to unclench his jaw, reaches for Faraday's whiskey, and drains a good portion of what's left. Sam, his eyes on the stairs like he expects at least one body to come tumbling down, bats at his shoulder. Vasquez passes the bottle over.

"Heaven help him," Horne implores, solemn. "And us."

***

**A WHOLE LOT OF NOWHERES**

When the seven of them ride out of Amador City the next morning, Faraday's hat is pulled low over his eyes and he makes it abundantly clear he's not in the mood for company, irritably rebuffing both Sam and Robicheaux's efforts. It's fortunate that Wild Jack has more sense than his rider, or else they might've lost him altogether by noon.

Vasquez rides near the front, well away from Faraday and his surly mood but within earshot of Robicheaux's conversation with Sam if he concentrates. "He's been full as a tick since we found him. Not the functional sort of drunk like in Rose Creek, mind you, the fall-down, bite-a-rattlesnake, nastily-insult-his-friends kind of drunk." Robicheaux flaps a hand in Vasquez's direction to punctuate his statement. "Not sure if this is usual for him or if it's a special occasion. Only sensible information we got out of him was the job, but he mighta remembered that on account of the town being called Fancy Gap."

"If it's a problem, we'll deal with it," is Sam's judgement on the subject. "I imagine someone in this illustrious crew can manage to light-finger those guns offa him should it become necessary."

Robicheaux nods and drops back to keep pace with Rocks and Red while Vasquez nudges his horse forward, wooden bell tucked into his palm alongside the reins. In a low voice, he tells Sam, "He carries a holdout pistol."

Sam gives him a long look. "You a light-fingered sort?" 

Vasquez shakes his head; not denial, but he's not volunteering.

"All right. I will take that under advisement."

When they break to make camp for the night, Horne takes charge of Faraday, leading him off to gather wood for the fire, speaking in his soft voice. After, Faraday takes himself a little ways apart from the rest of them, resting against a stunted tree, eyes on the night sky.

Vasquez sticks to his seat by the fire, but he does feel a little better when Horne joins Faraday again and nothing catastrophic happens.

Horne.

"Sam," Vasquez says, interrupting someone—probably Robicheaux, the man loves to hear himself talk—but this is important. "Sam, we picked up a new ass, but we forgot about our coffee mule."

"Oh, damn, so we did."

They contemplate the problem in silence.

Vasquez eyeballs Rocks and Robicheaux across the fire, concludes they aren't paying a whit of attention to anyone but each other anymore, and suggests, "We do have three more people now. Maybe they will like Horne's coffee."

"That... is an excellent notion," Sam decides with a flash of a grin. "I wouldn't want to deprive them of the experience."

Vasquez starts snickering. Even Red cracks a smile. It's small, but it's there.

***

"That is terrible," Billy says after swallowing a mouthful without a single change of expression.

Goodnight looks like he's considering eating grass to get rid of the taste. 

Faraday shrugs and downs the rest of his cup.

***

They make good time in a mostly easterly direction. Faraday livens up a little more each day until he's near the same person they'd known in Rose Creek, which makes everything both easier and harder on Vasquez. 

Easier in that he's not tensely awaiting the next time Faraday gets drunk and hostile and lets them all know again just how much he doesn't appreciate Vasquez's presence; easier in that Vasquez isn't so worried that there's something seriously wrong with the man.

Harder in that he doesn't have to look farther than twenty feet at any given time to remember what he'd missed these past few months; harder in that Faraday has taken particular exception to him, bluntly avoiding any sort of contact, verbal and otherwise. He'll happily converse with the others, but faced with Vasquez he clams up faster than a mustang escaping a saddling and finds somewhere else to be.

It's crystal clear now that Faraday hadn't just been drunk and belligerent in Amador City: he genuinely doesn't want Vasquez there.

(Vasquez can't stop remembering that day in the Rose Creek livery when it'd seemed like they'd been on the verge of something, when Faraday had followed him out of the saloon and kissed him like an ending, when he'd vanished before morning.

It's crossed Vasquez's mind that maybe when Faraday had said his previous partners had gotten squirrely he'd really meant _he_ had.)

Silent coexistence is tolerable if Vasquez ignores the way it claws at the tender edges of his wounded affection, leaving it perpetually raw and aching.

He thinks he's done a passable job of hiding his discontent right up until Goodnight takes it upon himself to shatter that notion.

They're somewhere in Nevada, catching a meal and a night's rest in real beds in a town Vasquez thinks might be called Dry Branch. They've spread out between the hotel and the tiny saloon across the street, the town being too small to boast more than one of each. Vasquez is smoking on the hotel balcony with Red, so Faraday is as far away as he can reasonably get in the saloon.

The balcony door creaks open; Vasquez doesn't tense because Red doesn't.

Goodnight's head pokes out. "You two mind one more?"

They share a look. Red lifts one shoulder. Vasquez waves Goodnight on. "Sure, amigo."

"Much obliged."

It's obvious in the rhythmic flex of Goodnight's grip on the balcony railing that he has something to get off his chest. Maybe they are going to argue about Texicans. Vasquez almost looks forward to it; it's a rare day when he's able to goad Red into a friendly quarrel about anything, Sam is too level-headed to bother, and wrapping his brain around some of the things that come out of Horne's mouth is liable to give him a headache.

It's not about Texicans.

"Believe me when I say I am very aware I am putting my nose where it's liable to get bit clean off, but what in heaven's name happened with you and Faraday?" Goodnight barely gives him a chance to process the question before he barrels on. "For all your, ah, clashes of personality in Rose Creek, you got on tolerably well when all was said and done."

Vasquez bares his teeth in an approximation of a grin. "You are right, your nose does not belong here."

Goodnight holds both hands up, palms out. "I know, I know. It's just—your name featured rather heavily in dear Joshua's drunken ramblings, which Billy and I were treated to from Utah to California, and I've got a meddlin' streak three miles wide. You both seem more miserable about the whole thing than anything else, so I figured it's nothing like he threatened to turn you in. Friends are hard to come by; why lose one if there's no need?"

Faraday is not miserable. Faraday is _fine_.

Claiming not to have lost anything is too big a lie to tell, so Vasquez settles on a smaller one. "You know as much as I do, cabrón. You heard him in Amador. If he does not want me here, he can come to me and we will settle it like men." Punching Faraday in the jaw would probably be very therapeutic. His fingers itch to rub the wooden bell's notch.

The corner of Goodnight's mouth pulls to the side. "That was not the impression I got. Granted, he made his point about as gracefully as a bull in a china shop, but words are not his forte. Especially when he's marinated in a few months' worth of rotgut."

Vasquez scoffs. "He made it well enough."

"He watches you," is Red's unsolicited opinion.

Vasquez sneers and kicks his feet up onto the railing, tucking his hands behind his head as he tips his face toward the dark sky so he doesn't have to look at either of them. "Probably plotting how to kill me." 

"Right." Goodnight sounds far from convinced. "Well, I appreciate that you didn't shoot me for askin'."

"I have seen how many knives Billy carries."

After a thoughtful pause, Goodnight says, "You probably haven't." It almost startles a laugh out of Vasquez.

There's a sudden burst of noise from the street, but it's only a handful of ornery drunks exiting the saloon. Vasquez hasn't been truly drunk since Rose Creek, though he'd strongly considered it in Amador City, but right now he wishes he was. The drunks don't go far, apparently content to disrupt the peace with the sharp sounds of their anger.

Vasquez's attention is still on the street when Faraday stumbles out of the saloon.

"Speak of the devil. Here now, what's this a-brewin'?" Goodnight murmurs. The drunks have noticed Faraday, too, and it quickly becomes obvious that he's the target of their ire. Vasquez's boots thunk to the floor so he can get a better view.

Words are exchanged, none of them friendly. 

Vasquez is on his feet with his gun in his hand before the biggest drunk can do more than reach for his. Red and Goodnight are right there with him, but the men below are too stupid to notice. He whistles, short and sharp. It gets everyone's attention, and two of the four are sober enough to realize there are three men who've got the drop on them.

"None of that, fellas," Goodnight calls, gesturing with the muzzle of his gun. "Kindly go about your business."

"He's a lousy cheat!" one of them yells.

"Now, I don't know about that, but are you really looking to get shot over it?"

"I'm lookin' for my goddamn money!"

Faraday, of course, makes it worse. "You mean _my_ money?"

The man lurches forward a few steps. A shot rings out, Goodnight jolts, and a puff of dust kicks up inches in front of the drunk. Vasquez leaves his finger on the trigger. "That was your only warning, hijo de puta. Get out of here."

To Vasquez's disappointment, they do.

"For the record," Faraday says to the unnaturally quiet street, "I did not cheat. They were just awful at poker."

***

"We got rooms so we could sleep, not get kicked out of 'em," Sam says as they ride out of town, moon high overhead.

Vasquez and Faraday start to laugh.

***

It's far from the first time they've needed to make a hasty departure. Sometimes Faraday plays cards with the wrong men. Once Horne catches the attention of a widow who won't take no for an answer. Another time, another town, it's Goodnight's name that wins them trouble with a pack of blues. Sometimes a town takes exception to Vasquez, Billy, or Red—Sam, too, though his warrant officer license usually gains them reluctant tolerance. They haven't come across another bounty hunter with Vasquez's picture in his pocket since Yuba, but his luck's bound to run out sooner or later. 

They're on the other side of Nevada when Goodnight's horse throws a shoe, stumbles, and nearly sends Goodnight flying after it.

Billy's on the ground calming the horse so Goodnight can dismount safely before the rest of them have come to a full stop. Vasquez dismounts, too, as the one with the most experience with livestock, and pulls up short when he sees Faraday advancing from the opposite direction. 

They stare at each other.

There's no chance in hell of Faraday addressing him, so Vasquez ignores him and shoulders his way in. "Which hoof?"

Maybe it's the blatant disregard that provokes Faraday into talking. "What makes you qualified?"

Vasquez snorts and moves to the horse's left foreleg when Goodnight points. "I don't know, pendejo, what do you think vaqueros do?" He pinches the chestnut of the leg and has the hoof in his hands before Faraday can say anything else stupid. "What are _you_ doing? Your horse is a devil. I cannot believe you are any good with normal ones."

The only response he gets is the horse's whuffling breath. There's no visible damage to the hoof wall, but there is a single nail left behind. He lets the hoof drop and ignores the glimpse of Faraday's pinched face over the horse's back as he goes to dig through his saddlebags for his pliers.

Everyone is suspiciously quiet as he goes about pulling the nail, murmuring soft Spanish platitudes to the horse. He checks the other three hooves for good measure and finds Goodnight and Billy staring at him when he's done. Faraday is gone. "What?"

"I have never in all my days seen Hotspur let someone look at his hooves without acting like he's rooted to the ground."

"Maybe you should not have named him Hotspur, eh?" Vasquez dusts his hands off. "We should get him to a farrier as soon as possible. No weight on him, or he could come up lame."

Red, furrowed brows and pinched mouth making it clear what he thinks of horses wearing shoes in the first place, let alone the necessity of finding someone to fix them, announces, "There's a town a few miles north," so they distribute Goodnight's belongings—Goodnight himself doubling up with Billy, to no one's surprise—and head north. Vasquez keeps a close eye on Hotspur, following on a lead rope behind him.

It's a small town like any other small town they've passed in the last few weeks of travel. Goodnight goes off to inquire about a farrier. Faraday wastes no time finding the saloon. Vasquez stays at the corral after they've turned the horses out to watch Hotspur carefully for any signs of favoring his left foreleg. The others lean against the fence, in no hurry to move off, likely with the hope they'll be back on the road within the hour.

Sam is the first to spot Faraday's reappearance. "Anyone see smoke? Buildin' must be on fire for Faraday to be coming back already. Or they're outta booze."

Curious, Vasquez turns to watch. Faraday ambles along for the length of two storefronts before his pace quickens to a purposeful lope, heading in the direction of the corral. But he doesn't stop when he reaches them, instead taking hold of Vasquez's shoulders and propelling him into the alley between the livery and a barber with such a thunderous expression on his face that Vasquez lets him, just to see what will happen. Maybe he'll get his chance to take a swing at Faraday's face.

The others follow, lining up along the mouth of the alley so as to mostly block them from public view. With a disgusted look at the shorter half of their audience, Faraday maneuvers Vasquez so they're primarily shielded by a bemused Horne and Red.

Before Vasquez can ask what's going on, Faraday hisses, "What the hell's your name?"

Confused but reasonably certain Faraday hasn't willfully _forgotten his name_ , the most Vasquez can get out is, "What?"

Faraday gives him a shake. "Your Christian name, you idiot! What is it? Is it Tiburcio?" 

"What? No, cabrón, have you finally gone crazy?"

Faraday lets go of Vasquez and his shoulders sag. "Okay. Good. False alarm." They hunch right back up when he remembers their audience, all staring at him like he's as crazy as popcorn on a hot stove. He crosses his arms over his chest. "What're y'all lookin' at? Heard some fellas in the saloon jawing about a Tiburcio Vasquez, and I reckoned we shouldn't go waltzing into that sorta trouble if it was him." He jerks a thumb at Vasquez.

Vasquez can only stand there, mute, as he tries to wrap his head around the fact that Faraday had been—what, trying to _protect_ him?

"That name does ring a bell," Sam says. "As I recall, Tiburcio Vasquez was a pretty infamous bandido who operated out California way. Hanged a few years back."

Vasquez huffs and glares at Sam, who doesn't so much as blink. Horne waves a strip of jerky at Vasquez and offers, "We do have a plan if we come across men lookin' for him," before taking a bite.

"We do?" Faraday echoes.

"We leave town. Fast," Red says.

Chewing, Horne adds, "And if that don't work, we have a few that are a little more creative." 

Faraday's face looks even more thunderous than when he'd first pushed Vasquez into the alley. "Maybe you shoulda clued the rest of us in."

"Goody and I knew," Billy puts in, mild. Faraday's mouth opens, closes, and he flushes a dull red from the tips of his ears to his neck as he glares down at his boots before shoving past Sam and Horne. He stalks out of the alley and past Goodnight, just returning, who wisely keeps his mouth shut until Faraday's further up the street.

"Well," he says, eyebrows disappearing under his hat. "The bad news is the farrier isn't going to be back for hours. The good news is someone can tell me what that was all about to pass the time, as I seem to have missed something."

"You and me both," Vasquez mutters.

*** 

The farrier is away so long that they have no choice but to take rooms for the night. Vasquez almost expects Faraday to vanish before morning now that he's broken his silence, but he's eating breakfast with Goodnight and Billy, bickering about something Vasquez can't be bothered to follow before his first cup of coffee.

"Morning," someone says. Vasquez responds in kind before he registers Faraday had been the one to speak. To him. Resolving not to think on it, he keeps his head down while he eats. He ignores Goodnight's look when he makes an excuse about needing tobacco as soon as he's done and wanders over to the general store to get some distance from Faraday's baffling everything.

Faraday follows him.

Nothing so blatant as an, "I'll come with you," no; when Vasquez comes out of the store, purchase tucked under his arm, Faraday is across the street, leaning on a post outside the wheelwright and smoking. At first Vasquez passes it off as coincidence, but it doesn't stop. Back to the hotel; Faraday is in the dining room again with an empty glass. To the leatherworker; Faraday has business at the bank next door. To the livery to check on the horses; Faraday is scanning the noticeboard outside the post office.

Vasquez endures two hours of the silent shadow act before he purposefully turns a corner around the livery, crosses his arms, and waits. 

Sure enough, Faraday turns that same corner not a minute later and yelps when he runs straight into Vasquez and bounces off into the dirt. 

"What are you doing?" Vasquez demands. He does not offer Faraday a hand up.

"Uh, dusting off?" Faraday tries, getting to his feet and doing just that. "You lurk around corners often?"

Vasquez scoffs. "¿Tú piensas que soy estúpido? No me mientas. Intenta de nuevo, cabrón."

"I do not know what you just said."

"What," Vasquez repeats, slow and menacing, "are you doing?"

Faraday squints at him. "Checkin' on Jack?"

"Oh, sí? Did you forget where you left him? Is that why you checked at the wheelwright, the hotel, the bank, and the post office? Does Jack write a lot of letters?"

Faraday's lips press into a thin line.

"Maybe you are waiting to get me alone so you can collect on my bounty?" Vasquez prods, for all that the question is like a shard of glass in his throat. His hands hover over his guns. "Go on, pendejo, try it."

"What? No!"

Vasquez waits.

"I'm not, I swear," Faraday says, voice low. He shuffles forward a step and Vasquez tenses, shifting his weight to his back foot, fingers twitching. "Sam told me about Yuba City, and I..."

Vasquez stills. "You what?"

"I want to help!" bursts out of Faraday in a rush. "Sorry. I'm sorry. I—" Faraday's head bows, his attention on the pattern his boots are scuffing in the dirt. "Can I leave it at I'm sorry?"

Vasquez wants the apology to mean something, wants to believe Faraday so much it aches. "You are the one talking. Leave it wherever you like, but do not expect me to understand."

Faraday's throat bobs and he sucks in a deep breath. "I'm sorry I've had my head up my ass for the past coupla weeks, all right? I don't want to see you dead any more than I want to see Horne naked." The knot in Vasquez's gut loosens, but he doesn't drop his guard. "Sam told me—he said someone usually sticks by you in towns. I said I would."

"By stalking me," Vasquez clarifies, crossing his arms.

"I... well." Faraday scratches the back of his neck. "That does seem to be how it turned out. I didn't think about how it'd look on your end."

Vasquez snorts. "You do not do much thinking, do you, güero?"

"Not if I can help it."

He cracks a smile without thinking and knows he's lost. "Tienes suerte que me caes bien."

"I still don't know what that means."

"It means I will forgive you—" He holds up a finger to stall whatever's about to come out of Faraday's mouth— "on one condition."

"I ain't givin' you my horse."

Vasquez huffs out a laugh. "I do not want him, cabrón. No. You must stop Horne from making the coffee. That, or no forgiveness."

"Deal," Faraday agrees quickly. He sticks his hand out, and Vasquez pushes the last of his hesitation aside to shake on it. They both squeeze harder than they need to, but Faraday's grinning and Vasquez can't help grinning back.

Before he's tempted to do anything else, Vasquez uses his grip on Faraday to tug him off-balance and clap him hard on the shoulder. As he's walking away, he calls, "Next time, just come with me, yes? You are awful at being sneaky."

"Right," Faraday says behind him. "I can do that. I _will_ do that."

***

"Jesus wept, does Horne always wake up before dawn?"

Vasquez grins over the rim of his cup, sharp-toothed and rested. "Sí."

***

The colder days cause their campsites to become more compact as they bed down nearer the fire and each other, which is likely what leads to Sam discovering Faraday's new bedmate.

The sounds of making breakfast and breaking camp are as familiar to Vasquez now as the weight of the medallion around his neck, so when the usual rustle and clatter breaks off into weighted silence, he looks up from packing, reaching automatically for his guns. 

The only thing out of place is Sam, standing at the foot of Faraday's bedroll, staring. Vasquez gets up, a tiny frisson of fear running down his spine. They'd been exchanging stories and drinking last night, no more than usual, but what if—

Sam kicks the bottom of Faraday's boot and Faraday startles awake, hat falling to the dirt when he lurches into a sitting position. There's a strangled sound from Goodnight, who presses a fist to his mouth. 

Held securely in Faraday's embrace is their sack of coffee.

"I'm not usually one to comment on a man's proclivities," Sam begins, "but I've never seen a man cuddled up to my coffee before, either. What the hell, Faraday?"

Faraday groans and flops onto his back, one arm thrown over his face, coffee still cradled in the other. "It's Vas's fault." 

All eyes turn to Vasquez. He manages to keep a straight face for all of five seconds before breaking into hooting laughter that goes on so long he has to sit down.

"You know what? Forget I asked."

Vasquez is still snickering about it later when he goes to check Hotspur's shoes before they head out. He stops short when he catches sight of Goodnight and Billy a ways downstream, bodies angled toward each other, heads ducked together. Their conversation is too quiet to make out, but Vasquez knows he's stumbled across something not for him to see. Quietly, he turns back the way he'd come, absently patting his horse's flank on the way past. 

He comes across Faraday heading toward the horses too, saddlebags slung over his shoulder. He puts a finger to his lips to forestall any of Faraday's usual nonsense and then points upstream. Miraculously, Faraday follows without objection.

For a few paces, anyway.

"What is it?" Faraday asks in a low voice, leaning close.

"Nothing to worry about."

Faraday's nose wrinkles. "Then what—"

"We are giving Goodnight and Billy some privacy, idiota, shut up."

"Oh. _Oh_." Faraday glances toward the horses but whips back around a second later. "Right. I got an eyeful of that on the way to Amador. Not that I _meant_ to, I mean—I'm gonna... uh. Not... go... over there."

Vasquez snorts at Faraday's discomfort and pats his pockets for a cigarillo and matches. "They are not fucking, güero, your innocent eyes are safe."

"Ha ha," Faraday mutters. "I knew what you meant, jackass. You think they weren't thick as thieves on the way to Amador? Always whisperin' about something. Traveling with them was a real treat, let me tell you." He drops his saddlebags on the ground and sits next to them, forearms propped on his bent knees. "Got another one of those?"

They haven't spoken much since Faraday's apology, but it's more of a lack of opportunity than avoidance. Having experienced the latter, it's easy to tell the difference. Vasquez decides a cigarillo is a fair trade for maybe getting some idea as to where the hell they stand, so he sits and holds one out.

"Grassy-ass," Faraday drawls, reaching.

Vasquez snatches it back. "No. No, no, no."

"Come on, muchacho, I've been sleepin' with a bag of coffee for you."

After careful consideration, Vasquez offers the cigarillo again. "Only for the look on Sam's face," he clarifies. "Never say gracias again."

They smoke in silence that isn't quite comfortable, but it's a far cry better than how it's been, namely in that Faraday hasn't retreated halfway to California rather than show a spark of warmth in Vasquez's general direction. Vasquez could reach out and touch him. He doesn't, obviously, because he is not so stupid as to spook Faraday like that again.

A ring of smoke floats out over the stream, a perfect circle until the wind catches it. Vasquez glances sidelong at Faraday, but he's looking over the water. So he blows a bigger smoke ring and has a smile ready for the narrowed-eye look he gets in return.

They go through two cigarillos each trying to outdo each other before Vasquez laughs and says, "Enough, güero, these are supposed to last me a week."

"Ugh. Fine." Faraday blows one more ring, tiny and gone in an instant. "How much longer are we givin' 'em?"

Vasquez shrugs and flicks the end of his cigarillo into the stream. "Don't know. Do you think they would _start_ fucking?"

Faraday chokes, coughs, and wheezes into laughter. "I say we let someone else find out."

"Hmm. I like that idea." Vasquez clambers to his feet and offers Faraday a hand up without thinking. Faraday takes it and Vasquez only briefly considers throwing him into the water in lieu of the punch part of him still dearly wants to throw. Punching Faraday would likely disrupt their newly-formed truce and reveal far too much about the nature and depth of his feelings that he'd rather keep to himself, preferably forever. Being friends is fine. Like Goodnight had pointed out, friends are hard to come by, especially for a wanted man.

When they round the bend to camp, Billy and Goodnight are already there, clustered with the others around a map weighted down on a rock.

"Guess that's a no," Vasquez murmurs for Faraday's ears only.

Faraday hums. "I don't know, Goodnight's missin' a button."

Vasquez snorts out a laugh and makes a pitiful attempt at a straight face when it draws everyone's attention, which sets Faraday cackling.

"We wanted them getting along again, right?" Vasquez hears Sam ask over their laughter. "Hey, chuckleheads, get your asses over here and show us exactly where it is we're heading."

***

After the coffee sack incident, their route skirts the edges of Navajo and Ute lands, so Red is alternately in the lead of their crew and gone, scouting ahead, leaving Vasquez without his usual silent companion. Faraday slips neatly into the vacant slot, though he's anything but silent. 

"Vas. Vas. Hey, Vas."

"Güero, I am _right here_. I have been here for the last three hours. _What_?"

"You really worked the range?"

Vasquez tuts. "I should have known you did not know what a vaquero is."

"I _know_ ," Faraday protests, steering Jack too close for comfort to glare. "I meant—you had an honest job and everything?"

"'Everything'?" Vasquez scoffs. "It was a job. It was honest. But I would not say it was everything." It might have been a stepping stone on the way to an _everything_ , had he ever been inclined to think on such things, but he'd never given the future the consideration it deserved when he'd had the chance.

Something in his tone must warn Faraday off the subject because he doesn't bring it up again until hours later, when the sun's gone down and they're sitting huddled around the fire after clearing away the remains of supper.

It's gotten easier to crowd out the memories of the night in Rose Creek the more time he spends in Faraday's company, but sometimes it sneaks up on him. With Faraday's skin washed gold in the flickering light of the fire, his hair a dark russet, his green eyes shrewd and glittering in Vasquez's direction, he remembers moon-pale skin and sweat and Faraday's laughing mouth.

Maybe it's the tendrils of affection for Faraday that refuse to be uprooted, maybe he's tired of no one knowing the truth, or maybe Faraday hits on just the right question to unravel it all. Whatever the reason, when Faraday asks, "So how crooked was that ranger you killed?" Vasquez wants to answer.

"Maybe I just wanted to kill him," he tries despite himself, just to see how serious Faraday is about wanting to know.

"Uh huh. And maybe Sam took the Rose Creek job because Teddy Q batted his eyelashes and said pretty please."

Sam snorts but doesn't interrupt. Other conversation has fallen quiet, replaced by curious expectation on the faces around him. Vasquez hopes he's not making a mistake.

"He was as crooked as a dog's hind legs, güero. Worse, probably." He rolls his wooden bell between his palms while he collects his thoughts. "There is not much to tell. I worked for a rancher named Reyes, long enough to go from wrangler to riding point on drives. Most of the men stayed many years. He treated us well." Considering he'd spent most of his teenage years on the wrong side of the law, stealing what he could to get by, being offered a job with real pay had seemed nothing short of miraculous. Reyes had invited even the newest of his vaqueros to eat at his table, and in the winter his wife had taught them their letters, too. He hadn't had it so good since before his family had died and he'd been left to the church.

Now it reminds him of how he'd felt when Sam had invited him along after Rose Creek. Hopefully it won't end the same way.

"A few days into the drive last year, we came across barbed wire fences where there had only been open range before, and a spring we usually watered the cattle at had run dry. Trail boss said to find a way around, fast, so we did. We had no reason to suspect treachery, but someone had dug trenches where the fences were not and covered them. The lead cattle fell in, broke their legs, sent the rest into a stampede. All of us had worked a stampede before, but with the fences, there was no room. They ground themselves—and us—into the wire." The memory of men, horses, and cattle screaming drowns out the crackling of the fire. He does not say how he'd been thrown from his own horse onto the barbed wire, sliding off to the relative safety of the opposite side with his shirt and back a torn and bloodied mess. He'd been lucky. "Nothing could be done.

"Those of us that made it out alive limped into the nearest town for a doctor, but we found the hijos de puta responsible instead, waiting to report to their boss. They saw us and knew who we were, tried to run. We caught one. He was proud to tell us about the ranger he worked for that hated Reyes and wanted him ruined. I killed him. I found the ranger and killed him, too. I would kill him again."

Something cold nudges his arm. When he blinks the firelight from his eyes, Faraday is holding out his flask. He takes it, drinks, rubs his thumbs against the smooth metal. Faraday waves him off when he tries to pass it back.

"When we returned to Reyes with the story, he already knew most of it. He knew, and he did not warn us. He thought we would leave the ranch and he would not be able to replace us in time for the drive. He let us ride into _that_ instead of—it doesn't matter." He drinks again. "Reyes found out about the bounty before I did. Mierda, he might have posted it himself. I don't know. He turned me out with the clothes on my back, and that was it." He tips his face to the sky to finish the tale. "I ran. I stole. I was, eh, not so careful about holding back against anyone who's crossed me since. You know the rest."

In what should be a solemn silence, Faraday blurts out, "You didn't say what Reyes did to the ranger."

Vasquez's lip curls. "Ignored unreasonable demands. Made a living while Mexican. The usual, güero." Vasquez had _admired_ Reyes for his grit back then. Now he's wearing a dead man's shirt and carries the knowledge that Hernández, García, Ramos, and Rivera had met their ends slashed on unforgiving wire and trampled under thousands of hooves.

On the other side of the fire, Billy grabs a bottle off Goodnight and raises it in salute. Vasquez holds up Faraday's flask in return. They drink.

***

Rumors of a gang of horse thieves begin to reach them a few towns before they cross the border into New Mexico territory.

"If we're hearing about it, it's likely they're still active," is Sam's assessment.

Faraday's chair creaks under him as he shifts. "Told you."

"Actually, I told them," Goodnight puts in, mild enough to rile Faraday up immediately. Vasquez keeps eating, though he wonders just how far east Faraday might've come after Rose Creek to begin hearing these rumors at all—and _why_ , if there'd been a reason. Faraday might tell him, if he asked, but he's been avoiding any mention of Rose Creek in case it dredges up the reason Faraday'd been so angry to see him again.

"Hey, Vas."

Vasquez glances up to meet Faraday's expectant gaze and mumbles "Hm?" around a mouthful of potatoes.

"Y'ever steal a horse?"

Vasquez swallows and starts to say no, but that's not altogether truthful. "Eh, a little."

Faraday's eyes crinkle at the corners with the size of his grin. "A little? Did you take it and give it back the next day?"

"No, no." Vasquez holds his hands a few inches apart, parallel to the table. "It was a small horse." 

That draws chortles from everyone except Sam, who has the usual furrowed knot between his brows that he gets when the rest of them get to talking about misdeeds he wasn't directly involved in. (Sam's sense of morality is a curious thing, but Vasquez isn't complaining.)

"There was a pony at the ranch that was very attached to my horse," he explains. "I left in a hurry and he got out, followed us for miles. Almost got me killed when I hobbled him outside a town and he kicked up a fuss, but it was safer without him."

Faraday snorts and claps him on the shoulder. "You _accidentally_ stole a pony."

"Sí, sí. I was so good at being an outlaw those things just happened."

"That's nothing," Billy says on the other side of Goodnight. "I stole a boxcar once."

Even Goodnight gapes at Billy for that proclamation, so the rest of them settle in for a good story that keeps them entertained until the saloonkeeper kicks them out.

Vasquez is pleasantly drunk, just enough that he has to pay attention to where he puts his feet as they make their way to the hotel where they have rooms for the night. Billy and Sam have Goodnight between them, though that seems less about stability and more about how Goodnight keeps remembering new details from the boxcar story to grab one of them to exclaim over. The glimpse of Billy's indulgent smile when he exchanges an exasperated but undeniably fond glance with Sam over Goodnight's head sends a tendril of envy worming its way into Vasquez's gut, but then Faraday stumbles into him and he has to concentrate on keeping them both upright instead.

"Güero—" is all he gets out before Faraday hooks an arm around his neck and asks, "Did it have name?"

"It? What? Oye, you are heavy—"

"The _pony_. The one tha' followed you."

He has no idea, but Faraday sounds so bizarrely invested in the answer he names it then and there. "Caballito."

Behind them, Red makes a noise in his throat that's nearly a laugh, and Faraday spins around so fast he almost knocks both of them into the dirt. Again. "Red! What's it mean? C'mon, he'll never tell me. Hey, Red, I'll steal a bunch of Jack's jerky for you—"

(Luckily for Faraday, Horne is out of earshot.)

"Güero, if you do not stop yanking I am going to drop you—"

Red somehow gets them both turned around and walking in the proper direction again, a hand on each of their backs propelling them forward. "It means 'little horse,' Faraday."

Before Faraday can put two and two together, Vasquez asks over his shoulder, "You speak Spanish, too, cabrón?"

"Some." Red jostles Faraday. "I want the jerky from his bag, not his vest."

"Shit," Faraday mumbles.

Vasquez and Red—mostly Red—manage to get Faraday up the hotel stairs without too much trouble, but getting him through the door to his room is another thing altogether. Goodnight, Billy, and Sam pause to watch, not hiding their chuckles.

"You could help," Vasquez grumbles, trying to shove Faraday's feet over the threshold without falling over. There's no way Faraday's not actively working against them; it's like trying to convince a stubborn mule to move.

"Billy and I poured dear Joshua into bed more times than I care to recall," Goodnight says as they continue on their way. "I wouldn't want to deprive you two of the experience."

"Pouring would—be—easier—ow. Cabrón, we are going to leave you here if you—"

Faraday starts to reply and Red takes advantage of his distraction, doing something Vasquez doesn't have a hope of following that forces Faraday's knees to buckle. Red sends him sprawling into the room and is gone before Faraday pushes up onto his elbows, listing to one side. " _Ow_. Lil' shit."

"That's you," Vasquez grouses. "How much did you drink, idiota?" 

In the manner of the seriously drunk, Faraday gives the question more consideration than it deserves as Vasquez coaxes him across the room. "As much as I needed to."

Hitting the floor has made Faraday marginally more cooperative, so Vasquez is eventually able to heave him onto the bed. Faraday, facedown, grumbles something into the pillow and bats his hat onto the floor. Suffocation seems imminent.

Vasquez sighs.

While he draws the line at removing Faraday's boots, he does haul his legs onto the bed and turns him on his side so he maybe won't smother himself. Then he realizes Faraday's gun belt is still strapped around his hips and groans. Thankfully, Faraday's face has gone slack with sleep, which at least makes unbuckling the belt and yanking it out from under his considerable bulk easier to cope with. The holdout pistol can stay wherever it's hidden; if Faraday manages to shoot himself with it, it's not on Vasquez's conscience.

His head is swimming by the time he's got Faraday situated, and the floor is getting more tempting by the second. He opens his eyes—not that he remembers closing them—and catches Faraday's glittering gaze in the scant light from the hall.

"You stayin'?"

His throat goes bone dry, but he chokes out a rusty laugh. "I have my own room, güero, why would I?"

Faraday's eyes fall shut and Vasquez breathes a little easier right up until he mumbles, "Y'could stay."

He really, really couldn't. Faraday's still muttering when Vasquez firmly closes the door behind him.

The next morning, Vasquez discovers that while he hadn't remembered to take his own boots off before collapsing into bed, he does remember Faraday asking him to stay with painful clarity. He swears into his pillow, then drags himself out of bed to wash and eat. He doesn't twig to Faraday's absence until he's halfway through his plate and Sam joins him at the table in the common room.

"If you killed Faraday last night, I hope you did a decent job hiding the body. I'm not much inclined to stick around here to investigate a murder. The food's not great, and the walls are thinner than I care to know."

Vasquez looks down at the lump of something that might be potatoes, might be beans. He shrugs and keeps eating. "If he is dead," he says around a mouthful, "he did it to himself."

"Suppose we'll see."

But Faraday's not still facedown in bed. He's not anywhere in the hotel. Most tellingly, Wild Jack isn't in the livery.

Vasquez wavers between disbelief and anger as he saddles his own horse; he hadn't _done_ anything this time, hadn't so much as hinted he would've stayed in a heartbeat if he'd thought Faraday meant it—

Why the hell had Faraday _asked_?

His horse huffs and sidesteps, echoing his agitation. He fishes the wooden bell out of his pocket to rub at the notch and concentrates on relaxing in the saddle before he rides out to join the others. Sam and Red are speaking in Comanche; Vasquez assumes it's the same exchange he had with Sam over Faraday's disappearance. Goodnight and Billy are conspicuously silent on the matter. Horne's nowhere to be found, but that's not unusual with how early the man rises. 

Horne turns up under a tree just outside of town. With the way his head is bowed, he seems to be praying, but as they get closer it becomes apparent he's talking to someone flat on their back in the grass with a hat over their face. Vasquez blows out a breath, somewhere between relieved and annoyed.

"Good morning," Horne calls.

Under the hat, Faraday moans. "It ain't."

"Fine enough for the rest of us," Sam says. "You ready?"

"Ready to be shot, maybe." Faraday sits up and chucks a paper-wrapped bundle at Red even as the sunlight makes him wince. Red peers inside, pulls out a piece of jerky, then tucks the rest in his vest. 

"We thought Red or Vasquez mighta done you in last night," Sam informs him. Vasquez willfully keeps his mouth shut.

"Not so sure Red didn't try."

"You'd be sure." Red takes a bite of jerky. "And dead."

Faraday squints up at Red. Red, unconcerned, continues chewing. "Enjoy that," Faraday grumbles, climbing laboriously to his feet. "I broke my last dang fishing line trading for it, since I am not as all-fired stupid as the Pigeon brothers, no matter what I say when I'm drunk."

Vasquez goes cold at the implication before calling himself ten types of idiot; of course Faraday asking him to stay hadn't meant anything other than he should've stopped drinking much earlier than he had.

After they've mounted up, Horne joins Red and Vasquez at the head of the group. "You could've said you were out," he says to Red with a gesture at the jerky. "I got extra for you like I always do. Not that I didn't appreciate the fish and the chat."

Red shrugs. "More fun this way."

Vasquez snorts and ducks his head, pressing his thumbnail into the bell's notch. He's off-kilter and rattled and irritated at himself for feeling that way, but Horne and Red won't press him to speak. He lets their conversation wash over him, catching a phrase here and there from whatever Sam, Goodnight, and Billy are talking about a ways behind them, too. Faraday brings up the rear, either taking his hangover more seriously than usual or avoiding Vasquez. 

Vasquez knows which he'd put his money on.

His relative solitude lasts up until they break to water the horses and Faraday appears at his elbow, Wild Jack following like an overlarge dog. Vasquez eyes them both and raises his chin, jaw set.

"Here." Faraday holds out a tobacco tin.

Vasquez doesn't move. "What's that for?"

"I smoked some of yours, remember?" Faraday waggles it. "Just take it, will ya?"

He does, careful not to let their fingers brush, eyes on Faraday's face. "Gracias." The shadow of his hat makes it difficult to be certain, but Faraday looks more flushed than the cooler weather can account for. Vasquez quickly rolls two cigarillos and holds one out to reciprocate the gesture and to affirm they are definitely never talking about last night.

They smoke. The horses drink. Faraday gets comfortable enough to open his mouth again.

"You were with the same outfit for years? Same place?"

"Mostly."

"And y'never had anything permanent-like?"

Vasquez nearly bites through the cigarillo when his teeth grind together. "No, pendejo. No wife. No children. No family. Nothing. If I had had anything worth keeping, I would not have left it behind." 

Maybe it's genuine interest that fuels Faraday's persistent picking at Vasquez's past, or maybe he recognizes that he's found a sore spot and can't resist digging, but Vasquez is in no mood to indulge him either way. He ducks away with a muttered excuse about helping Red and leaves a furrowed-brow Faraday behind.

Vasquez catches Red in the middle of making his preparations to ride ahead. "You want any help scouting today?"

Horne is Red's usual companion if there's ever need for two of them to ride out, but Red looks Vasquez up and down, casts a pointed look back at Faraday, and accedes with a wordless lift of his chin.

Vasquez spends the rest of the break repeating a series of phrases in both Navajo and Ute that will presumably stave off immediate death should they encounter anyone from either tribe—not that he has any idea how he's meant to tell the difference between the two, but he'll cross that bridge if he comes to it. Eventually Red gives his pronunciation a slight nod of approval and they mount up.

As an afterthought, Red adds, "We should ask about a doctor if we see anyone."

Vasquez frowns and scans the group, but no one has any injuries or illnesses he's aware of. "Why?"

Red's voice is utterly devoid of inflection when he answers, "Faraday's foot is so far down his throat he must need one."

Vasquez sputters into laughter. "It is kind of you to think of him, but he is beyond help, amigo."

Red grins.

***

Goodnight's voice carries over the flat terrain as Red and Vasquez ride out. "You're damn lucky he hasn't shot you yet. You're completely inept." 

"You're getting worse," Billy chimes in.

"Get your dang noses out of my business," Faraday growls.

Anything else is lost to the distance and the pounding of the horses' hooves.

***

They don't encounter any Navajo or Ute, but they do cross paths with another traveler.

"Howdy!" the man calls from a respectable distance. "You fellas wanna exchange news?"

They don't have much choice, but there are two of them and one of him, so they have the advantage should things turn south. Red takes the lead; Vasquez keeps his head down.

"Name's Boone," says the man when they get closer than shouting distance. If he's taken aback to see who he's approached, he doesn't show it. "I'm gonna reach in my pocket for a warrant, don't get excited."

Vasquez's stomach twists. "You a bounty hunter?"

"As of late." Boone unfolds a worn-looking sheet of paper and holds it up. "Seen this man? Goes by Coyote Hank, but the name his mama gave him is Henry Harvey. Wanted in three states for robbery and murder. Nasty son of a bitch."

Vasquez tries not to relax too obviously as he shares a glance with Red before tipping his chin toward Boone. They nudge their horses a few paces closer to study the warrant, but it's no one Vasquez recognizes. Or, rather, the man in the picture is so generic it could be half the men in the last town they'd stayed in. "Don't think so. Sorry, amigo."

Boone sighs and they exchange information about the trail before parting ways. It's so normal it feels _off_ somehow, but that could be Vasquez's well-cultivated paranoia rearing its head. 

"Did that seem strange?" he finally asks, several minutes after Boone has become little more than a speck on the horizon of desert scrubland.

"No."

Vasquez frowns, half at Red's unsatisfying answer, half at himself, but the uneasy feeling lingers for the rest of the day, even when they double back over ground they've already covered to rejoin the others for supper. When they spot the campfire in the distance, Red jabs Vasquez in the calf with the toe of his boot and then urges his horse into a gallop. Vasquez's horse isn't much of a sprinter, but he can't possibly ignore a challenge like that. 

They thunder into camp and are greeted by Sam, arms crossed over his chest, a distinctly unimpressed air about him. "Any particular reason you're riding like you've got an army on your tails?"

"Hungry," Red replies. Vasquez snickers into his horse's flank at the look Sam gives them.

"You've got a wait yet. Goodnight's being particular," Sam says before he leaves them to take care of their horses.

There's not much in the way of shelter on this leg of their journey, and the temperature drops with the sun, leaving Vasquez shivering by the time his horse is brushed, watered, and fed. The open spot closest to the fire is also closest to Faraday, who's using a boulder as a backrest.

With only a moment's hesitation, Vasquez marches over. "Anything living under that rock?"

Faraday straightens and glances over his shoulder. "Uh, no? Don't think so. Didn't actually check."

Good enough. Vasquez drops his saddlebag and bedroll and sits, tucking his knees close to his chest and holding his hands out to the fire. He keeps his eyes on the cast iron pot hanging over it when Faraday gets up, but he's too worn down from the tension he's been carrying since Boone to hide his frown. He reaches for the comfort of this morning's irritation to temper his disappointment and comes up empty; it's been lost to the miles and hours between then and now. His outstretched fingers curl into fists and he lets his forehead drop to his knees with a tired sigh.

He startles when a soft weight falls across his shoulders smelling faintly of horse and reaches up to find a blanket draped over him. Faraday is studiously not looking at him as he sits back down against the rock and starts complaining about how long supper is taking.

"You want rabbit fever, be my guest," Goodnight says, stirring the pot. "The rest of us'll wait until it's cooked through."

Faraday subsides with a grumble and digs his deck of cards out of his pocket. He shuffles, cuts, shuffles again, then fans them out in Vasquez's direction. "Pick a card."

Vasquez has seen Faraday perform this trick and others more times than he can recall, but he takes a card all the same and gives it a glance. Jack of hearts.

"This is not so impressive after the tenth time," he informs Faraday as he slides the jack into the middle of the deck. "I could probably do it by now."

"You could, huh?" Faraday shuffles, cuts, holds up the wrong card like he always does, wrinkles his nose when Vasquez rolls his eyes, and fans the deck out again to reveal one card face down, the rest facing up. It's less flashy than producing it from his sleeve, at least. "Wanna bet on that?"

"Maybe. What do I get when I win?" Vasquez plucks the face down card from the deck and flips it on top of the others to reveal the jack of hearts.

"One-eyed jack." Faraday huffs, his expression somewhere between a smirk and something Vasquez can't put a name to. He offers the deck to Vasquez, but Vasquez waves him off, pulling the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

"No, no, I will do it in daylight so you cannot say I cheated. And you haven't told me what I'm going to win."

"What _I'm_ going to win, you mean?"

"I said what I meant."

They argue about who's going to pick a card when Vasquez does the trick ("Not you, güero, that would not be fair,") until Goodnight announces supper is ready. They bicker more about the terms after they're done eating, but with his belly full and Faraday a warm—if loud and moderately annoying—presence at his shoulder, Vasquez's chin dips toward his chest as he struggles to keep his eyes open.

He must nod off entirely because the next thing he remembers is Faraday asking, "What'd you do to get him so tired?"

Red answers before Vasquez can sort through who Faraday's talking to. "Found a bounty hunter."

Vasquez tips abruptly to the side when Faraday leans forward to hiss, "You _what_?"

"He gets jumpy," is Red's less-than-flattering explanation.

With a yawn, Vasquez rights himself. "You would get jumpy, too," he mutters, rubbing his eyes.

Faraday turns on him. "Did you kill him? The bounty hunter?"

Distant from the event itself, Vasquez can snicker in the face of Faraday's concern. "He was not looking for me."

A few feet away, Sam pauses in laying out his bedroll. "Or if he was, he was smart enough not to try anything when the odds were against him."

"Has anyone ever told you you were comforting?" Vasquez tugs at the blanket to tuck his hands inside the folds. "If they have, I want you to know it was a lie."

"I'll keep that in mind," Sam says. "Stop looking at me like I shot your horse, Faraday. Get some sleep. We're only a few days out from some actual work."

***

"What are you doing?"

Faraday finishes tucking the sack of coffee between their bedrolls and covers Vasquez, the sack, and himself with his extra blanket before he bothers to answer. "Fortifyin'. Jack's been trying to sneak it away when I'm sleeping." He raises his voice to add, "Which is a good way to get shot!"

"I know what I'm about, son."

"Not with brewin' coffee, you don't."

"Güero, we all saw you drink it."

"I did?" A pause. "How drunk was I?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts: 
>   * [Tiburcio Vasquez](https://www.legendsofamerica.com/we-tiburciovasquez/) was a real outlaw. The Vasquez Rocks in California are named after him. :D Pretty cool stuff.
>   * Each town Billy mentions was (or still is) a real place in Utah.
>   * Goodnight's horse, Hotspur, takes his name from Shakespeare's _Henry IV_ , the same play the "we have heard the chimes at midnight" quote comes from.
> 



	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amazing art by [Kira](http://kirayamidemon.tumblr.com/) in this chapter! If you prefer to view on tumblr, the art is [here](http://kirayamidemon.tumblr.com/post/177702266320/jesus-wept-he-glances-over-his-shoulder-at) as well. Kira was an absolute pleasure to work with! :D

**FANCY GAP**

The only thing remotely fancy about the town of Fancy Gap are a handful of buildings with flaking patches of blue paint, relics of a time before the sun and wind had faded everything to the same dusty tan as the surrounding scrubland. Despite not living up to its name, it's a decent-sized place, large enough that seven strangers riding into town doesn't attract much attention from the locals.

"Seeing as we might be here for a spell, try to look a mite more friendly," Sam suggests. When Vasquez puts on a winning smile, he winces. "I saw you smile like that right before you shot a man in the leg."

Vasquez's smile widens. "He was going to run."

"That doesn't make it better."

"Lighten up, Sam." Faraday grins. "Vas either looks like he's about to kill someone and he's happy about it, or like he's about to kill someone and he's mad about it. That's just his face."

"Now, Joshua, that's not true," Goodnight admonishes. Vasquez feels a moment of vindication before Goodnight adds, "Sometimes he's asleep."

Vasquez feigns a wounded noise. Faraday cracks up and nearly falls out of his saddle when Wild Jack starts prancing under him. "Aw, hell, Jack, knock it off," he complains, but Jack keeps on jigging into the crossroads at the center of town as they take stock of the place.

"You ridden a horse before, güero?"

"Nah, this's my first time. All that other ridin' was a group hallucination. C'mon, Jack, quit." Eventually Faraday gives up and lets Jack strut around in a tight circle before trotting south down the cross street. "Hotel's this way!" Faraday calls over his shoulder, as if any of them believe he's the one in control.

With a collective shrug, they split off into their usual tasks: Vasquez, Faraday, and Red take care of the horses, Goodnight and Billy secure the rooms, Sam goes to finesse the local law enforcement, and Horne finds a porch and gets to local-watching.

(Horne can look deceptively harmless when he's of a mind, even to someone who's seen him tackle a man off a horse.)

Boarding the horses at the livery goes surprisingly well; it's the first time Vasquez can remember Wild Jack _not_ snapping at a stablehand and threatening to kick, though the winter apple slices the boys keep in their pockets might have something to do with that. 

They regroup in the center of town where Horne's planted himself in a rocking chair in front of a once-blue building with a faded sign proclaiming it to be Smitty's General Store. Horne holds out a small package to Faraday, who takes it with a furrowed brow. Curious, Vasquez peers over Faraday's shoulder as he peels back the brown paper.

"Fishing line," Faraday says dumbly.

"There's a river a little ways north. I wouldn't want you to miss out." Horne smiles and links his hand over his stomach as he rocks.

Faraday seems to have forgotten how to speak, so Vasquez nudges him and gets glared at for his trouble. 

Goodnight butts in. "'Thank you' is the customary civilized response when one receives a gift."

"No thanks necessary. I'm only balancing the scales," Horne says. Faraday ducks his head, but Vasquez can see the flush creeping down his neck and has to avert his gaze when a surge of fondness wells up in his chest with alarming speed.

Sam clears his throat. "What's the accommodation situation, Goodnight? I heard some chatter about a wedding."

"Ah." Goodnight jingles a handful of keys. "Well, the short of it is that they only had four rooms to spare on account of the pending nuptials, and I had to sweet talk her up from three. The bride's family must be fairly well-to-do, with so many out of town guests attending. Billy and I will share—" as if that isn't their standard practice everywhere— "but most of the rest of y'all'll need to stand each other for another night or two until some of the other guests depart."

Red grumbles something in Comanche. Sam responds in kind, then says, "Red and I will take one. And, Jack, I'm sure we'd all feel better if you didn't go camping outside town before we get a feel for the situation."

Horne nods affably and looks expectantly at Vasquez and Faraday.

"I'm not signing up to sleep in the same room as someone whose snores I once mistook for a storm rollin' in, so I'll take a key and Vas," Faraday declares. The key is in his open palm and the last one is in Horne's before before Vasquez can think of an objection fit to say aloud.

"I think the real question here is if Vasquez will take you, but I'm outta keys, so you can settle that amongst yourselves." Goodnight dusts his hands off and tucks them in his pockets with a smirk. "What's the local law got on our horse thieves, Sam? Billy mentioned—oh, you tell 'em, chèr."

Billy's eyes flick over their surroundings and he waits until a pair of nearly-grown boys pass by to say, "With the wedding, there's plenty of extra horses and people to blame the theft on. Good time to strike."

"Normally, I'd say that's a safe bet."

Billy cocks his head. "But?"

"But," Sam confirms. "There _are_ warrants out for the thieves, but no posters on account of no one knowin' who they are. No one of interest on the others," he adds with a subtle nod at Vasquez. "Sheriff Dunn and his deputies weren't too keen to talk about the situation, given that they were all of the opinion there isn't one."

Faraday crosses his arms over his chest and says, "Rumors like that don't just _happen_ ," in a tone that dares anyone to claim otherwise.

Sam hums an agreement. "Seemed a little far-fetched to me, too. 'Bout the only thing I got out of 'em was that the _alleged_ thievery took place at a Newsom Ranch, a few hours' ride outside of town."

Horne perks up in his rocking chair, the creak of it mostly drowning out the crinkle of the paper-wrapped bundle in Faraday's now-clenched fist. Vasquez frowns and keeps his eye on Faraday as the rest of them turn their attention to Horne. There's something tight around his eyes and jaw that hadn't been there moments ago.

"That's a name I've heard in just the little while we've been here," Horne says as Vasquez continues to study Faraday. "Folk're mighty curious to see if the Newsoms attend the wedding. From what I understood, the groom used to work for them." 

Vasquez frowns harder at the obvious disparity. "A ranch hand with enough money to marry a woman who fills up a hotel with wedding guests?"

Goodnight's mouth pulls to the side. "Could be love."

Vasquez scoffs. "Sure, amigo."

"I would not have pinned you as one of those fellas who don't believe in love."

"Who says I don't?"

"Your cynical response of five seconds ago, for one. Two people tyin' the knot and your first thought is there must be something amiss?"

It puts Vasquez in mind of the handful of times he'd considered smothering a healing Goodnight with his own pillow back in Rose Creek. By Faraday's muffled snort, he might be thinking the same. In a carefully measured tone, Vasquez explains, "I am being realistic. If the groom was a ranch hand, he must have been paid very well and saved for a long time to afford married life. Or there is something funny going on."

Aid comes from an unexpected quarter. "Bride could be pregnant," Billy muses. "Or maybe blackmail?"

"Et tu, Billy?" Goodnight shakes his head. "Misanthropes, the both of you."

It's an English word Vasquez hasn't heard before; he glances at Billy, who only shrugs with the faintest suggestion of an eye-roll.

Sam sighs. "If you three bachelors are through discussin' your irrelevant opinions on the institution of marriage, let's get on with what we came here for. We should—"

The bell above the general store's door clangs and a woman exits. She startles and takes an abrupt step back at the sight of the seven of them, jostling the basket looped over her arm. "Oh, my," she breathes, hand fluttering over her heart. Her eyes get even wider as they flick over each of them in turn. "You, uh, you gentlemen here for the wedding?"

Red scoffs, but Goodnight swoops in before she can do more than stare. "No, ma'am," he says, scooping up a packet of sewing needles that had fallen. "We're here on a different sort of business altogether, though I do enjoy a good wedding. Goodnight Robicheaux, at your service, and I am terribly sorry if we gave you a fright. Do you happen to reside in this fine town?"

It happens she does, and the rest of them watch, bemused, as Goodnight offers to carry the woman's shopping to her destination and struts off down the street with his new companion, chatting amicably.

(Vasquez sneaks another glance at Billy, but Billy's arms are loose at his sides, apparently unconcerned with Goodnight charming a random townswoman.)

"Right," says Sam with a fond shake of his head. "He'll come back with an entire dossier on the bride and groom, their families, the guests, and other gossip besides, so that leaves information on Newsom Ranch and the thieves to us. I reckon we'll have better luck with the loose-lipped drunks."

***

The Lone Tree Saloon, like the town it stands in, fails to live up to its name. Faraday pauses outside the door to mutter, "Where'd the tree go?" before he ducks inside, Sam and Vasquez close behind. Horne had decided to stay put outside the general store and Billy had chosen to keep him company until Goodnight returned. Red had gone to scout whatever he thought needed scouting.

The only person who gives the three of them more than a disinterested glance is a man with a deputy badge. Sam heads over to the deputy's table with a parting nod and Faraday makes a beeline for a card game in the corner. Vasquez orders a beer and stations himself at the end of the bar, far enough from the other patrons that he doesn't owe anyone a drink for standing next to them. He settles into the role of silent observer, head down, keeping an eye out for trouble and an ear out for information. 

(It's his usual job, even before they'd become a group of seven again. Sam handles the talking, Red pretends he doesn't speak a lick of English because folk'll say anything around someone they think doesn't understand them, Horne is... Horne, and Vasquez avoids looking at anyone who might remember his face.)

By the time a well-heeled man bellies up to the bar next to him, Vasquez has learned that no one is happy about all the newcomers in town, that someone named Clarence owes at least three of the men in the saloon money, and that Faraday's skill at sleight of hand extends to swapping drinks. He keeps offering the men at the card table congratulatory shots, but the truth of it is he's been switching out his empty glass with their full ones, so what he offers is none other than the whiskey they paid for themselves.

(Vasquez would be impressed if he weren't half-expecting one of the men to catch him at it and start a brawl.)

"A mint julep, Saul, and another beer for this a-mee-go here," the well-heeled man says. His Spanish accent is worse than Faraday's. Vasquez nods in thanks and expects that to be the end of it, but the man props his foot up on the rail to angle himself toward Vasquez, clearly aiming to start a conversation. It's been a long while since Vasquez has spoken more than a few words to anyone outside of his trusted companions, and he'd honestly rather not start with a man dressed like his money burns holes in his pockets. 

Not that he's got a choice in the matter. He can practically feel the man's eyes on him, a coil of tension building in his gut.

"You got the manner of a cowhand about you, son. You here lookin' for work?"

Vasquez's grip tightens on his glass. "Only passing through. My last drive was years ago."

The man's fingers drum on the bar-top and his clean-shaven jaw ticks before his expression smooths into something more pleasant. "You can take a man out of the range, but you can't take the range out of the man," he says, gesturing to Vasquez's gun belt. He thrusts his hand out. "Name's Daniel Rattigan, owner of Doc Ranch. Got three thousand head of cattle to my name."

Refusing the handshake would draw more attention than Vasquez wants, so he takes Rattigan's hand but keeps his name to himself. Unfortunately, Rattigan misconstrues it as a sign to keep talking.

"I can always use a man who knows what he's about. Too many young bucks come through with the idea that cowpunching is all flash and excitement and don't stay more than a season when they figure otherwise, thinkin' there's something bigger and better out there. I'm sure you know the type." Whether Vasquez does or not appears to be irrelevant, since Rattigan keeps on without a care for a response. "And, oh Lord, them greenhorns reading tales in the newspapers back east, comin' out here, not knowin' a stirrup from a spur? Terrible, just terrible."

Now that Vasquez has had a closer look at Rattigan's fancy duds, he doubts whether Rattigan himself knows the difference. His vest only has two pockets, his trousers are made of fine cloth that wouldn't survive more than a day in the saddle without wearing clean through or ripping at the seams, and the toes of his boots are entirely the wrong shape to be removed quickly from a stirrup. His whole kit looks like it came from a catalog published by people who'd never seen a cow except on a plate.

But Vasquez keeps his opinions firmly behind his teeth and hums a general agreement. He drains his beer, thinking. If Rattigan owns a cattle ranch like he claims, that means he's got a sizable herd of horses for his cowhands. He might know something to make this conversation worthwhile.

"Heard there were horse thieves around here," Vasquez says and is taken aback by how quickly Rattigan exchanges his contrived camaraderie for vitriol.

"Hell, you've heard that shit too? If you came out here lookin' for bounty money, you'd do better to take my offer. That goddamn woman—pardon." Rattigan clears his throat and visibly tamps down a sneer. " _Mrs Newsom_ has had the run of her husband's horse ranch for the last coupla years, ever since he took a nasty spill and got hisself laid up permanent-like. Me and my boys used to get all our cuttin' ponies from the Newsoms, but the missus ain't got no head for business. This 'horse thieves' cock-and-bull is her trying to cover up how the place is goin' under without taking the blame her own damn self. Horse thieves," Rattigan repeats with a shake of his head. "Lord Almighty, does she have an imagination. I dodged a bullet there." 

Vasquez's eyebrows climb to his hairline. "Oh?"

Rattigan leans in, obviously eager to share. "I put in my suit to court the woman 'round nine years ago, but she turned me down flat. A blessing in disguise, if what John Newsom's had to deal with is any sign. I told him she needed a firm hand. The whores at the Colonel's ain't never given me such trouble." His grin glints gold at the corners.

Another couple of rounds keep Rattigan rambling; it's obvious he's gasping for a fresh ear for his woes. With the way the saloonkeeper actively avoids their side of the bar, he's likely heard it all more than once. By the time Rattigan has described the mysterious Mrs Newsom's figure for the third time—complete with hand gestures—it's not hard to surmise he's still extraordinarily bitter about his decade-old rejected suit, bullet dodged or not. 

"Don't go gettin' hired there, a-mee-go," Rattigan slurs. "Cattle're where the money's at. Y'come see me, I'll find ya a bunk."

"Sure," Vasquez mutters, pushing away from the bar. He's heard plenty, and he's at his limit for dealing with the man's oily presence. A seasoned rancher trying to hire new cowhands in a saloon makes a certain amount of sense now that Vasquez knows his primary aim is to keep new blood away from a romantic rival's business, but it's still very strange. "Adiós, pendejo." 

Rattigan's head bobs and he lifts a hand, slumping heavily against the bar. He's more than drunk enough for Vasquez to escape without a fuss, at least partially due to how he'd taken a cue from Faraday and switched his own full drinks with Rattigan's empties.

He leaves the smokey saloon to lean his hip against the railing outside and pull out a cigar.

Dusk's long shadows have hardly crept an inch by the time Faraday joins him on the porch, a bottle in hand.

"You run out of money, güero?"

Faraday snorts. "I'll have you know I've got a gift for separating fellas from their cash when I don't want somethin' else from 'em, but I surely did as far as Ed and his incredibly boring broken water pump are concerned." He offers Vasquez the bottle, but Vasquez declines with a shake of his head. Surprisingly, he doesn't crack it open himself. "You telling me holdin' up the bar was more useful than listening to locals bellyaching over poker?"

"I was listening, too," He taps his ear, then shoots a sidelong look at Faraday. "And maybe waiting for one of those locals to catch you switching drinks."

"Catch me? Please. I don't get caught." Before Vasquez can point out _he_ caught Faraday, Faraday props his elbows on the railing, leaving only the top of his hat and the sharp edge of his jaw visible. "Sounded like you were findin' gainful employment." 

Even if it had been a possibility, Vasquez would never work for a man like Rattigan. "Not likely. What I did find is a rich man who does not like the Newsoms."

Faraday tips his hat so he can peer up at Vasquez. "That _might_ be more useful than Ed's broken pump."

"Maybe." Vasquez grins. He gnaws on the end of his unlit cigar for a moment, then says, "Come on, I'm hungry."

The main floor of the hotel is crowded with guests, but Horne's large figure is easy to spot amongst all the unfamiliar faces in the dining room. Vasquez taps Faraday's shoulder and points just as Goodnight, wedged in next to Billy, waves them over.

"You're just in time for supper," Horne says after they've squashed themselves into the meager space left at the too-small table.

"That's the idea," Faraday drawls. Vasquez grunts and pushes back when Faraday jostles him in the process of turning a shit-eating grin on Goodnight. "You look like you just drank some of Horne's coffee and then stepped in a giant pile of horse shit."

Goodnight's disgruntled expression deepens. "Charming."

"Vasquez and I weren't far off the mark," Billy explains with a slip of a smile.

Vasquez grins, sharp and bright. "Something up with the wedding?"

"Yes, all right?" Goodnight snaps. "Can we talk about it in the morning when we're all here so I only have to eat crow once?"

Vasquez props his elbow on the table—he has to shove Faraday's over to have room—and puts his chin in his palm. "Sí, sí. It is enough knowing I was right."

"Your magnanimity knows no bounds, truly."

When the food comes, delivered by a harried woman who barely glances at them to realize their number has increased, Billy raises his glass to Vasquez with a smirk, his elbow catching Goodnight in the arm. Goodnight swats Billy's shoulder and grumbles something about them rejoicing in the failings of human nature, which sets Horne to sermonizing. Vasquez eats quickly; between Goodnight and Horne's back-and-forth and the press of strangers on all sides, he has no desire to linger over the meal. 

He remembers too late that he's set to share a room with Faraday, who still has the key. Instead of handing it over when Vasquez wriggles away from the table, Faraday bids the others goodnight and accompanies him.

Going up the stairs with Faraday a few steps behind does not remind him of the night before the battle in Rose Creek, and he's not disappointed when the only thing Faraday says at the top is, "Key's got an eight stamped on it."

The door with the matching eight squeaks open to reveal a small room made even smaller by a second rickety cot jammed against the far wall under the window. There's a lamp burning on a narrow table between it and the room's original bed, leaving a bare sliver of space separating them. Vasquez hesitates on the threshold. A shared campsite is one thing; a shared, private hotel room is something else altogether.

Swallowing his misgivings, Vasquez steps inside and tosses his hat at one of the real bed's posts before Faraday can argue. "Since you volunteered us for this, you are sleeping on the cot." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Faraday's face screw up before he turns away, unbuckling his gun belt.

"Did you _want_ to sleep in the same room as Horne's uncanny impression of a freight train?"

Vasquez wants to sleep almost anywhere other than where Faraday's set to unshuck. He wants a lot of things, and too many of them are the same things he'd wanted months ago in Rose Creek. He wants to not want Faraday anymore, to take his friendship and be satisfied. What he says is, "You think you don't snore?"

Faraday scoffs. "I know I don't."

That's not remotely true, but Vasquez is in no mood to belabor the point. "Sure, güero."

"That sounded a lot more like humorin' than agreein'."

"Take what you can get," Vasquez says, knowing full well he should take his own advice. He keeps his back to Faraday as he unbuttons his vest and tugs his shirt over his head.

A hissed intake of breath turns into a low whistle behind him and he freezes, thoughts tangling into a snarled ball of confusion.

"Jesus wept," Faraday drawls, stretching it into too many syllables. "What did all that? Not as impressive as being shot twice, obviously, but..."

"Obviously," Vasquez mimics Faraday's tone, casting his gaze upward with a silent prayer for patience. He glances over his shoulder at Faraday, whose hands are frozen halfway through unbuttoning his own vest as he stares at the broad scarred swathes painting Vasquez's lower back. "You know, I have been shot twice, too."

Faraday's eyes snap up to meet his. "What? Bullshit."

Vasquez taps his bicep. "Rose Creek." Then his right thigh. "Llano Estacado." 

"So not twice in the same day," Faraday clarifies, face set in mulish lines.

"No, but these are," Vasquez gestures at the scarring on his back before he turns away to fold his shirt. Most days he forgets they're there, but he's seen plenty of barbed wire scars on other vaqueros to know that they look like some sharp-clawed, exceptionally angry animal had tried to remove his kidneys. The scars themselves don't bother him anymore, but it's difficult to forget having the shredded remains of his shirt dug out of the lacerations. Right now the memory is an almost welcome distraction from Faraday watching him undress. "Barbed wire. I do not recommend it."

Faraday's "Oh," is considerably more subdued. "The ranger's stampede?"

"Sí."

"I can't believe I didn't notice those when—" Faraday breaks off with a strangled sound. "I mean—before now."

Part of Vasquez wants to say, _You mean when we fucked?_ just to get it out in the open again, but the last time he'd tried that it had backfired spectacularly.

Before he can come up with something less incendiary to say, there's a flurry of rustles and thumps, the creak of weight on the cot, and a clipped "Goodnight," from Faraday.

Judging from the pile of clothes on the floor, Faraday still has his boots on.

 _Squirrely_ is one word for it.

Vasquez finishes unshucking and turns out the lamp before crawling into bed. Faraday speaking without thinking is nothing out of the ordinary, but now Vasquez has to live with the bitter consolation that he isn't the only one who hasn't forgotten that night in Rose Creek for all that he's tried.

The truth of the matter is he'd put better odds on himself meeting an untimely end before he gets over that one damn night. If months apart followed by weeks of Faraday's jackass behavior hadn't done it, nothing will. The forgetting he's tried to convince himself he's been doing has been nothing more than a brass-bold lie.

It doesn't matter.

After this job—if there is a job—Faraday will leave, just like he had after Rose Creek, and Vasquez will keep on with Sam until a better offer comes along, which is about as likely as Sam becoming an outlaw himself.

A scant few feet away, Faraday starts to snore.

***

In the morning there are enough empty tables in the hotel dining room to accommodate the seven of them without the judicious use of elbows there had been at supper. Vasquez chooses a seat safely between Horne and Red and rolls the wooden bell between his palms. When the woman from the night before brings around a pot of coffee, Sam asks about the lack of business. She huffs and tells them, "The Jenkinses are startin' their big wedding to-do early. Makin' a whole day of it."

As soon as she's gone, Goodnight sighs so theatrically it draws a chuckle from Sam and a smirk from Billy. Vasquez dredges up a smile that sits a little easier on his lips at the sour tilt of Goodnight's mouth. "I think we are all ready to hear how right I was." 

"As much as it pains me to admit it, the Fancy Gap gossip mill does suspect there's something not quite right with the wedding." Goodnight takes a pointed sip of his coffee and slings his arm across the back of Billy's chair, apparently content to make them wait for the rest.

"You gonna get to talkin', or are we supposed to drag it out of you piece by piece?" Faraday grumbles. To Billy, he adds, "Why do you put up with this all the time?"

Billy shrugs. "There are other benefits."

There's dead silence for the span of a breath.

Then Goodnight's jaw drops and he casts such a look of wide-eyed incredulity at Billy that Vasquez bursts out laughing. Faraday picks up his own slack jaw and joins in, practically howling with laughter until he has to rest his forehead on the table with the force of it; Sam and Horne aren't far behind. Red might even chuckle, but it's impossible to tell over the ruckus.

Billy raises an eyebrow at Goodnight with all the smugness of a cat that's overturned a full pail of milk. Thoughtfully, he reaches over and closes Goodnight's mouth with two fingers under his chin.

Faraday wipes tears from the corners of his eyes and says, "I'd say I'm sorry I asked, but sweet Jesus, Goodnight's _face_ ," before he starts snickering again. 

"All right, all right, we've got business to attend to, gentlemen." Even Sam has a difficult time sounding stern when he's got a fist to his mouth to hide a smile.

"Not a one of you are gentlemen," Goodnight declares. Despite his red face, he seems to have gotten over his shock and looks rather pleased about the whole thing. "I don't rightly recall what I was about to say before that debacle."

"The wedding," Billy prompts, calm as can be.

"Y'all are getting the longest version possible for all that. And you," the way Faraday jolts and yelps suggests Goodnight's just kicked him in the shin, "Have some respect for the art of storytelling. If I'm going to eat crow, I'll have it with seasoning and a garnish."

Faraday scoffs and drains his cup like it's full of whiskey instead of coffee.

"The blushing bride-to-be is Miss Mabel Jenkins, heiress of the Jenkins family," Goodnight begins, "who, from what I gathered, own a goodly portion of this here town. Her daddy made his fortune some twenty years ago in the mining town of Silverton—" 

The table jumps with a sudden impact and Faraday swears, snatching up the cup he'd knocked over. Vasquez frowns when Faraday mutters an apology and slumps down in his chair, arms crossed.

Goodnight clears his throat. " _As_ I was saying, Silverton's about a half-day's ride east. I got the impression that callin' it a town is somewhat of an embellishment, since after Mr Jenkins struck it rich and got himself a wife he decided that Silverton was no place for a lady. He convinced a handful of other families to leave Silverton behind, too, and so the illustrious town in which we now sit was founded by the Jenkinses, the Smiths, the Rattigans, and," Goodnight pauses, eyebrows raised, "the Newsoms."

Sam cocks his head. "So it's possible someone in Silverton has held a grudge for twenty-odd years."

"That long and it could rightly be termed a feud," Goodnight agrees. "Now, it would be remiss of me to not draw attention to the element of romance in this story in the form of Mr Jenkins wantin' so dearly to impress his new wife he built a whole new town for her, but common sentiment is that Clarence Thompson, the man set to marry Miss Mabel, isn't cut from the same cloth. Gossip has it that he's proposed to her on more than one occasion and always been denied by her daddy on account of the rumor he's sweet on the inheritance rather than the lady herself."

"Something changed," Vasquez concludes.

"Pregnant," Billy says, blunt as ever, and earns himself an elbow in the ribs from Goodnight.

"Just where is your mind this morning?" Goodnight asks with feigned genteel affront. "And you," he says, pointing an accusatory finger at Faraday, "not a word."

Faraday holds his palms up in surrender. "Believe me, I do not want details."

Goodnight snorts. "As it happens, Clarence came into some money by way of a recently deceased uncle. He purchased himself three hundred acres, which was enough for Mr Jenkins to allow him Miss Mabel's hand."

There's a moment of silence before Faraday says what they're all thinking. "A dead uncle? Really? Bless their hearts for believin' such a tale."

"It'd hardly be churnin' the rumor mill if they did, now would it? It's mighty suspect, but there's no hard evidence that he didn't come by the cash honestly. And no one's bold enough to go against the Jenkinses without proof in hand."

"No proof except the groom's former employer sayin' she'd been robbed," Faraday argues.

Sam frowns. "The sheriff certainly didn't look too hard for the thieves. I imagine a few horses sold on the sly would be sufficient to buy that much land, especially around here. Good horses, granted, but it's not unthinkable."

"Newsom Ranch sells cutters," Vasquez puts in as the only one who understands the value of a soft-footed mount on the range. He gets mostly blank looks in return and sighs. "They're used to separate certain animals from the herd. Calves, during roundup. Not every horse is suited to it. They are expensive."

"So they are good horses," Sam concludes.

Vasquez nods. "A rancher I spoke to said he used to buy his cutters there. He also said Mrs Newsom made up the story about the thieves."

"Honorable men don't malign respectable women behind their backs," Horne mutters into his cup. "It ain't right."

"Well then," Sam says, leaning back in his chair. "Way I see it, we've got two leads: Silverton and Clarence Thompson. Getting to the groom on his wedding day might pose something of a problem, so we'd best start with getting the facts from Newsom Ranch and tracking down any long-held grudges in Silverton."

There are nods of agreement around the table with the notable exception of Faraday. "Someone should stay in case somethin' happens. Wouldn't be the first time a man's set to get hitched and decided not to show up."

Goodnight tips his hat up. "I intuit you are about to volunteer for the arduous task of holding position here."

"There's seven of us," Faraday grumbles. "No need for all of us to ride along on each other's coattails. And I don't like mines."

"Does anyone?" Billy murmurs.

"He's got a point," Sam cuts in before Faraday can dig in his heels. "Goodnight, you and Billy handle Silverton. Red Harvest'll go with you and get the lay of the land out that way. I'll take Vasquez and pay Newsom Ranch a visit. Horne and Faraday will stay here, provided Faraday doesn't get distracted by the cathouse across the way."

Faraday's face relaxes into a sly grin. "C'mon, Sam, those ladies might know somethin'."

Vasquez stares down at his white-knuckled grip on his cup and resolutely ignores the unpleasant clench of his gut.

***

**NEWSOM RANCH**

It's a few hours' ride before a cluster of buildings sprout on the horizon, fenced with wood that must have cost a fortune out here in the scrubland. The two-story house is painted a sky blue that puts Vasquez in mind of the splotches of color flaking off the stores lining Fancy Gap's main street. There's a barn near it, unpainted. Further off are two more structures, lower to the ground, likely stables and a bunkhouse for the ranch hands. 

A small figure sitting on the fence spots their approach and leaps down to dash into the main house, the door banging open and shut like a shot despite the distance. A few moments later a different figure emerges, this one larger and obviously cradling a rifle.

"Why are there always guns pointed at me when I am with you?"

"Easy," Sam murmurs. "I'll do the talking."

"Si tu quieres," Vasquez mutters in return.

Sam dismounts and leads his horse through the gate, keeping his hands in plain sight. Vasquez follows his lead. Only as they get closer does Vasquez realize that the rifle-toting figure is the tallest woman he's ever seen, clad in men's trousers, long auburn braid trailing over her shoulder. Under the brim of her hat, her broad face is set in a scowl.

"Can I help you fellas?" she asks in a tone that suggests she'd gladly help them facedown into the nearest ditch.

It's not the warmest of welcomes.

"You Mrs Newsom?"

"Who's askin'?"

"Sam Chisolm, duly sworn warrant officer of the circuit court in Wichita, Kansas. I'm also a licensed peace officer in the Indian Territories, Arkansas, Nebraska, and seven other states." Sam produces his papers for inspection with slow, deliberate movements.

The woman's hostile stance eases a fraction, but Vasquez isn't terribly reassured when she jerks the rifle in his direction. "And him? He looks like a vaquero, not a lawman."

"He was. Now he's part of my crew." Sam and the woman stare each other down for an uncomfortable minute before Sam offers, "Heard you'd had some trouble with thieves. We'd like to help."

Her lip curls. "You must not have come by way of Fancy Gap. Folk there believe horses disappear into thin air."

"We did, actually. Can't say as I was terribly impressed with the way the local law's handled your situation."

"Handled? _Handled_? The sheriff sent one of his pea-brained deputies to take a statement and then sat in his office with his thumbs up his ass." Vasquez ducks his head to hide a grin, but she's not done. "The only time he takes 'em out is when Robert Jenkins or Daniel Rattigan need to shove their whole hand up there to play puppet an' have him say whatever they damn well please."

The moment she spits out Rattigan's name, Vasquez knows he can get her to trust them—or at least put the rifle down. He claps Sam on the shoulder and steps forward. "Rattigan is the greenhorn-looking rancher that would not last a day on a drive, yes?"

The woman's shrewd green eyes narrow. "That's him."

Something tells him flattery will get them kicked off the property at best, so he sticks with a simple: "I met him. I would not work for him."

The considering twist of her mouth is strangely familiar, but Vasquez is more interested in the dip of the rifle's barrel toward the ground. "Y'got a better head on your shoulders than most, then. Son of a bitch keeps poachin' my men with promises of higher wages and running 'em off." She takes a step back and jerks her head toward the door. "Y'all better come in, I s'pose. There's a hitch for the horses 'round the side."

The door bangs shut after the presumed Mrs Newsom and her rifle go inside, making Vasquez twitch. He waggles his eyebrows and grins at Sam over his horse's back and gets a satisfying nod of approval in return. They secure their horses. Sam leaves his gun belt behind, but he doesn't insist on Vasquez doing likewise, so they won't be entirely defenseless should Mrs Newsom prove even less hospitable than she seems.

They both stand clear of the door when Sam reaches out to knock.

"It's open!" Mrs Newsom hollers.

They're hardly two steps inside before they're faced with the rifle again, though this time it's propped against a wall. Mrs Newsom herself is standing next to a sturdy table with her arms crossed, eyeing them like she isn't quite sure how to take them accepting her less than gracious invitation. A boy, younger than Rose Creek's Anthony, occupies a chair at the table, a deck of playing cards in his hands. He's mid-shuffle, but the cards have been forgotten in favor of gawping at Sam and Vasquez.

"You really aimin' to deal with these yellow-bellied bastards?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Sam's forthright answer must convince her, at least momentarily, of their sincerity. "We'll see if you still believe that once we get down to the brass tacks of it. Have a seat. I'll put some coffee on."

Vasquez gives the rifle a long look before he sits across from the boy and gestures to the cards. "Want to see a magic trick?"

Sam sighs, but the boy's sharp green eyes light up. "Yes, sir."

Vasquez shuffles—nothing as fancy as what Faraday does, but it gets the job done—and fans the deck out. "Pick a card, chico." The boys does, cupping it furtively in his hands to memorize it before sliding it back into the deck when Vasquez prompts him. There's a mixture of delight and disappointment on his round face when Vasquez flips the wrong card over with a flourish.

"That ain't it."

"No?" Vasquez's feigned confusion isn't terribly convincing, if Sam's cough is anything to go by, but the boy's disappointment shifts swiftly to fascination as he fans the deck out again to reveal one card facing the opposite direction of the rest. "Hm, what is this?"

The boy plucks it out and turns a beaming grin first on Vasquez, then Sam. "It's my card!" 

Vasquez performs the trick three more times before Mrs Newsom returns with the promised coffee and a softer set to her jaw. "Jacob, go help Alonso with the chores while I talk to these gentlemen." 

Jacob frowns but gathers up his cards and hops down. "The tall one can do _magic_ ," he whispers, overloud. Vasquez huffs out a laugh as Jacob scurries out of the house.

Mrs Newsom's eyebrows disappear under her hair. "Magic, hm? Is that how you plan to bring these thieves to justice? Last raid there were at least four of 'em, maybe more. The two of you up for that?"

"Oh, there's seven of us, ma'am," Sam corrects lightly without mention of the much longer odds they'd already faced. "Landing the whole crew on your doorstep without warning seemed a mite unwise, given your difficulties."

She concedes the point with a tip of her chin. "So you're Sam Chisolm, lawman. You got a name, vaquero?"

"Vasquez."

"Matilda Newsom. I'll save you the trouble of askin' after my husband: he ain't here. He had an accident with a bronc a year ago and got his back hurt somethin' bad. The doc here couldn't do much for him, so he's out east with fancier ones hopin' and payin' for a miracle. Not that he'd be much good if he were here."

The statement sits uneasily in Vasquez's stomach. "He would not defend his property? His family?"

Mrs Newsom snorts. "Don't misunderstand me, Mr Vasquez. My husband's a good man, good with the horses, but he couldn't hit the broadside of a barn at ten paces and he's always been too trusting. He'd say, 'I'm sure a man's got a dire need if he's stealin' a horse.'"

"You don't see eye to eye on the subject?" Sam asks and sips his coffee. 

Vasquez watches him carefully for any sign of it being as terrible as Horne's, but Sam's face stays carefully blank. He raises his own cup to his lips and regrets it immediately when the next thing out of Mrs Newsom's mouth is: "I shot one of the sons of bitches the last time they came, 'round five weeks ago. Only managed to wing him since it was dark, but come mornin' there was blood on one of the fence posts and in the stables where Queenie gave another of 'em some trouble."

Vasquez and Sam exchange a glance. "Dog?" Sam guesses.

"Mare," Mrs Newsom corrects with a flash of teeth. "Gettin' on in years, but she's got some kick to her yet. Ain't no shrinking violets here, Mr Chisolm."

"The thought never crossed my mind. Why don't you start at the beginning?"

They drink their coffee and listen as Mrs Newsom gets out a neatly-kept ledger and lays out the extent of Newsom Ranch's losses, her face grim as she recounts the theft of six trained gelding cutters intended for sale in Santa Fe, three broodmares, one stud, and another four untrained yearlings, stolen over the course of three separate raids in the past six months, all under the cover of near-moonless nights. 

"Fourteen quality animals gone, the bastards who stole 'em still free men, a sheriff who thinks my records ain't any sort of proof, and that jackass Rattigan convincin' any man I hire to jump ship before they can do more'n a week's honest work or witness a damn thing." She looks them both square in the eyes, ramrod straight in her chair, knuckles white around her cup. "I am goddamn tired of it. You think you can help? I ain't got a clue how, but you're welcome to try. I'll pay you per head for any of my stock returned and for any of the bastards you catch. The horses I'd like in working order. I'm not so particular about the men."

Her anger hangs in the air like a living thing. Vasquez doesn't doubt her willingness to put a bullet between the eyes of any of the thieves.

"I'm more than willing to see justice done, ma'am, but there's one thing I want to make clear: I ain't in the business of hanging men. I'll shoot them, but I won't hang them." Sam doesn't touch his neck, but Vasquez has seen the scars there. "Now, how is it that none of your men saw anything?"

"Hell if I know, but it went a long way toward convincin' the sheriff I made the thefts up outta whole cloth. The only one who's stood by the ranch is Alonso, but he's been here longer'n I have, so his word ain't to be trusted. Load of horse shit, you ask me."

It's sounding more and more like a case of corrupt lawmen; hardly the first they've come across, but especially infuriating since the law seems to be working in direct opposition to a woman with an absent husband and a child. Vasquez can tell by the flat line of Sam's mouth he's thinking the same. Corrupt lawmen tend to be short-lived once Sam gets involved.

Mrs Newsom takes them around the property, pointing out the corrals the geldings and yearlings had been taken from, the rail fence that had been sawed clean through, the lock hacked off the stable doors. 

The combative mare Queenie puts in an appearance when they near the pasture she's turned out in, greeting Mrs Newsom with enthusiasm and eyeing Vasquez and Sam warily. She's a bay, brownish-red coat with a black mane and tail, but it's the way she follows Mrs Newsom along the fence like a loyal dog that puts Vasquez in mind of Faraday's Wild Jack, though their color is a near-match as well.

"She is a fine mare," Vasquez says. He stays back a respectable distance; Queenie is obviously cut from the same cloth as Mrs Newsom, demonstrating her willingness to bite or kick by pinning her ears back whenever she so much as glances at them.

"The best of the stolen stock were her get," Mrs Newsom says, patting Queenie's neck as the mare lips at the end of her braid. "Never thrown a bad foal. Some had more spirit than most, but they've all had solid cow sense. Best cutters I've ever trained." She gestures, a signal Vasquez doesn't quite catch, and Queenie turns without hesitation to present her flank so Mrs Newsom can point out the brand on her hip. "Our brand is a connected N R. Don't reckon a rustler could turn that into much, but so many horses 'round these parts have it anyway it hardly makes a difference."

The sun is high overhead as they head back toward the main house. Some of Mrs Newsom's palpable aggression has drained away, leaving a glimpse of the weariness underneath it all, and Vasquez is struck with the urge to offer his help. The bunkhouse must have an empty bed or two, and he knows horses well enough to be useful. Faraday could have the room in town to himself. It's the offering itself that may prove troublesome; Mrs Newsom has warmed up to them a little, but she seems more likely to take offense than accept such an offer, honest as it is.

Sam pauses on the porch, hands on his hips, and surveys the ranch. "You know of anyone with a grudge against you or your husband, Mrs Newsom?"

Her bark of laughter is devoid of humor. "Plenty of folk don't like me none, Mr Chisolm. I dared to come from Silverton and snatch up one of Fancy Gap's most eligible, and now John's out east, maybe forever, and I've got the run of the place. Don't sit well with hardly anyone."

"It would be faster to list the people that do like her," a new voice says. A man rounds the corner of the house, a length of rope coiled over his shoulder, a bucket in his hand, no gun Vasquez can see. He's older, more gray than black in his mustache.

"Why, thank you kindly," is Mrs Newsom's tart reply, but her face softens much like it had around Jacob. "Alonso, this here is Sam Chisolm, warrant officer, and Vasquez, vaquero magician. They seem to think they can help us with our thief problem. I'm inclined to let them try."

"Oh, yes? Well, they cannot make it worse." Alonso's tone is affable, but his gaze is wary. He sets the bucket down and dumps the rope on top of it. "Maybe start with Clarence and his dead uncle."

Mrs Newsom huffs. "Goin' on about that again? That boy's still wet behind the ears, for all he thinks he's ready to marry into the Jenkinses. Scared of his own damn shadow."

"I am not disagreeing with you," Alonso says, clearly exasperated. It has the rhythm of a well-worn argument, both sides too long entrenched to consider budging an inch. He turns to Sam and Vasquez, imploring. "Boastful greenhorns make bad decisions. Boastful greenhorns sweet on rich town girls make even worse ones. Clarence quit a good job here and next we heard he was working for Rattigan at Doc Ranch, maybe two weeks before the first horses were stolen. After the second raid, suddenly he has a wealthy dead uncle. It is suspicious, no?"

"You could say near the same about six other ranch hands we've lost," Mrs Newsom cuts in before they can agree. "Don't mean nothing. Clarence's ma was just about the only person to treat me an' mine decent when we first came to Fancy Gap."

"That was because she was widowed and sweet on your brother, not any excess of kindness."

Mrs Newsom's nose scrunches up. "Still, she was kind. Most weren't."

"So you will repay her by not going to her son's wedding?"

She glares. "Ain't got the time to spare to go into town. You know that."

"If I can ask—" Sam cuts in and gets the full brunt of the glare, but he forges on. "There's only the two of you?"

Alonso answers before Mrs Newsom can. "My sister Maria and her two sons make the trip out as often as they can, but it is not enough now and it will be even less during planting season. Jacob is a good boy, but still only a boy."

Bitterness thick in her tone, Mrs Newsom adds, "We had plenty of hands before John's accident. Now no one'll so much as spit in our direction. Mighty coincidental."

Driving a herd of horses to market in Santa Fe would need at least four trustworthy men with more left behind for the ranch's daily operations. Two is—laughable. Absurd. Impossible. Vasquez will help, whether Mrs Newsom likes it or not, and it seems Sam agrees. "My men know which end of a horse is which. I'm sure we can be of some use here while we try to sort out your troubles." It's more of a statement than an offer, but Sam softens it with: "With your permission, of course, ma'am."

Mrs Newsom doesn't reply right away. When she does, her voice is low. "I don't understand you, Mr Chisolm, but I ain't stupid enough to turn you down. Nearly too proud, but not stupid."

***

They ride back to Fancy Gap with a promise to return to Newsom Ranch the following day with the rest of their crew. 

Vasquez distracts himself from thinking about the hotel by listing all the tasks that'll need seeing to, trying to choose the right man for each job. He starts to snicker when he gets to the stables.

Sam glances over. "What's so funny?"

"I cannot wait to see Goodnight and Billy mucking out stalls."

Sam laughs. "Maybe keep that under your hat until we've got 'em there."

***

**FANCY GAP**

The fading orange light of sunset is soft and hazy over the rooftops of Fancy Gap by the time Vasquez and Sam get back to town. They find Horne in the hotel's dining room again, working his way through a sizable supper. They mirror his nod of greeting and sit, Sam taking the chair to Horne's right and Vasquez sinking down across from them, folding his arms on the table to pillow his head. Horne, solicitous, nudges a thick slice of bread across the table and stares expectantly until Vasquez takes a bite, realizes how hungry he is, and shoves the rest in his mouth. A second slice follows the first.

"Did our lucky ranch hand go through with the wedding?" Sam asks, amusement lurking in the corners of his mouth.

"He surely did, and I hope to Heaven he was honest in the Lord's house."

"Something tells me we'll find out, sooner or later." Mindful of being overheard, Sam quietly summarizes the situation at Newsom Ranch, including Alonso's suspicions of Clarence, then asks, "If the last raid was over a month ago, would there be anything left to track? I ain't an expert, but I know scrubland doesn't hold on to much for long."

"Couldn't say. If there is, Red and I will do our best to find it."

Red, Billy, and Goodnight won't be back from Silverton until midday tomorrow, which leaves only one man unaccounted for. Vasquez asks, "Where is Faraday?" before he's sure he wants to hear the answer.

A hand claps down on Vasquez's shoulder and the man in question swings into the seat next to him. "Right here, muchacho. Miss me?"

"Like a horse misses a fly, güero." Vasquez smirks at Faraday's exaggerated grimace. "You owe me."

"Uh... do I?"

Vasquez nods. Faraday's hand is still on his shoulder. "I did your card trick."

"What? When?"

"At Newsom Ranch," Sam supplies. "The kid was very impressed."

"Kid?" Faraday sputters.

"You know," Sam says, holding one hand parallel to the ground around chest height. "Shorter than adults, tend to get underfoot, easily entertained?"

"I know what a kid is," Faraday huffs and crosses his arms. "I meant—there's kids out there where all the thievin's goin' on?"

Vasquez remembers bleeding in the church, the smell of smoke, a wounded Faraday pushing to his feet to help the children escape the fire, and, weeks later, a distant Faraday asking if he wanted kids. Despite all his bluster, he's soft-hearted.

Sam leans back in his chair. "At least one. Maybe more. I suppose we'll find out, since we'll be bunking there starting tomorrow."

Horne nods in easy acceptance, but Faraday gapes. "We're what now?"

"You got sand in your ears, Faraday? I said we'll be bunking at Newsom Ranch. Mrs Newsom has agreed to any help we can offer, and right now what she needs most is to keep the ranch running. And if we're already there, we'll be able to defend the place if there's another raid, which I reckon there will be."

"How do you figure that?" Faraday asks, scrubbing a hand over his eyes.

Vasquez and Sam had spent much of the ride back discussing the particulars of the situation: John Newsom's accident and departure, Mrs Newsom's unpopularity, Clarence and the other ranch hands quitting their jobs, the sheriff's unwillingness to investigate, and the ranch's inability to attract new employees all add up to bad news for Newsom Ranch.

"We think these thieves have a score to settle," Sam explains. "Horse thieves keep their eyes open for opportunity: there ain't no way not a single one of these wedding guests wouldn't find themselves short a mount if we were dealing with regular thieves, and there hasn't been a whisper of trouble, has there?"

"Not a peep," Faraday says. "What happened to good old-fashioned greed? Why's it all gotta be personal?"

"Makes for a better story later, don't it?"

Faraday's eyes narrow and his nose scrunches up. "You've been around Goodnight too long."

"I'll be sure to tell him so." Sam's chuckle trails off into a huff of breath Vasquez would call a sigh had it come from anyone else. "I hope he's talked his way into something useful. Whole situation's rotten."

"The touch of the righteous will excise the rot of depravity," Horne murmurs.

It's maybe a little worrying that Vasquez has grown so used to Horne's ways that not only does he understand him, he hopes Horne is right, too.

More food arrives and they tuck in without further discussion. Horne and Sam retire for the night when they finish, but Vasquez lingers downstairs, smoking and watching the other diners. Faraday stays, too, but his hands are restless, fiddling alternately with his empty glass and his cards, flitting from one to the other so often that Vasquez is surprised the glass hasn't somehow ended up shuffled into the deck.

"Mrs Newsom will not bring a pitchfork to a gunfight, if that is what's troubling you. Or are you afraid you have forgotten how to do an honest day's work?" Vasquez finally asks.

Faraday scoffs, his fingers drumming an irregular rhythm on the tabletop. "Who says I've done any to forget?"

"Ah. It must have been hard on your mother, to have a son born with a deck of cards in one hand and a bottle of whiskey in the other."

"Drove her to an early grave," Faraday declares. "Always was a gambler. Speakin' of..." He produces a mostly full bottle from somewhere and slides it over. "This cover my forfeit? Seein' as how we never officially agreed on stakes."

Vasquez considers the bottle before pushing it back with a sidelong glance that mostly reveals consternation. "Keep it. Proving you wrong is enough."

"Hey, now, don't go makin' a liar of me. We had a bet; you won. Think on it." A pause. "But I ain't giving you Jack."

Vasquez chuckles. "I still do not want your devil-horse, güero." He taps the table twice and rises. "I am going to sleep, since we will be sharing a bunkhouse with Horne for the next while."

Faraday makes a face like someone's just poured out the bottle of whiskey in front of him. "Right. Bunkhouse. Newsom Ranch."

"Honest work," Vasquez adds and pats Faraday on the shoulder before heading upstairs.

It occurs to him as he's sliding under the blanket that one of them could bunk with Sam since Red is in Silverton, but going back down to suggest it would come too close to acknowledging last night's undercurrent of tension. He tugs the blanket up as far as it will go and pushes his face into the pillow. If he's asleep before Faraday comes up, it won't matter.

By some good fortune, sleep finds him between one breath and the next.

***

A crash wakes him when it's still dark. It's followed by a thump, a yelp, and a series of low-voiced swears.

Bolt upright in bed, it takes Vasquez's racing heart a few moments to recognize the shadowy figure slumped against the wall as one that doesn't want to kill him. He groans. "Güerito, qué carajo?"

Faraday slides down the wall and mumbles something about a tack. He smells like a saloon.

With another groan, Vasquez rolls out of bed and shivers when the spring night chill immediately seeps into his skin. He stands over Faraday with his arms crossed for warmth and kicks him in the ankle. "Oye, güero. Up."

"Vas? Vas." Faraday peers at him and struggles to his feet, landing somewhere between crouching and standing, the wall at his back the only thing keeping him upright. Bemused, Vasquez watches Faraday's hand wobble toward him until it finds purchase in the collar of his shirt and tugs so hard he has to bend to save it from tearing. Faraday's whiskey-scented breath puffs against his face. "Vas. She's... she's gonna kill me. _Kill_ me. She's gonna... she..."

Vasquez jerks back like he's been slapped. Something rips. He manages some sort of noise in response, but Faraday's too drunk to notice. _She_. There's little question of how Faraday spent the day, then: the cathouse, presumably irritating one of the working ladies to the point of imminent murder. It's not that surprising, considering the disparity between how charming Faraday _thinks_ he is and how charming he actually is—that is, not at all. Vasquez pities the woman who'd had to put up with him, even if she had been paid for her time.

"Gonna kill me," Faraday is still muttering.

"Uh huh," Vasquez agrees, all too familiar with the urge. He swallows it down and takes advantage of Faraday's incoherence to unbuckle his gun belt and set it aside. He reaches for Faraday's hat to do the same, but Faraday latches onto his wrist.

"Wait. Wait. I shoul' tell... _Vas_. She's gonna..."

"Kill you?" he suggests, shaking his arm free.

"Uh huh," Faraday breathes. Then he sags forward, unconscious, leaving Vasquez staggering under the sudden weight.

Maybe this _she_ will let Vasquez help.

***

Fancy Gap boasts its own doctor, a short man with a patchy beard on his strangely square face who looks like he'd rather hack off his own arm than talk to Sam at such an early hour. Vasquez privately agrees, but Sam has to have a reason for questioning the man before breakfast. All Vasquez really has to do is loom at Sam's shoulder, which is better than listening to Faraday's groaning.

"I told you, sir, I treat young fools every other week who crow over how they got themselves hurt, and I'd eat my hat if a lick of it was true. I am a doctor, not a lawman or a gossipmonger. The how and why are not under my purview."

"I understand that," Sam says, an edge to his voice, "but surely as an educated and upstanding citizen of this fine town you understand the importance of cooperating with the law, and as a _doctor_ I am confident you can tell the difference between a gunshot wound and a broken bone. All I'm asking is if you treated anyone who got shot 'round five weeks ago."

The doctor huffs and draws himself up to his full height, which brings him about even with Sam's nose. Vasquez bites down on a smirk. "If memory serves me, I made a trip out to Doc Ranch around that time to tend to a few of Mr Rattigan's cowhands. Young men always suffer from an excess of bravado and a lack of sense when it comes to testing their skills."

"Did these young men have names?"

The doctor's eyes narrow. "I am sure they did, but I don't recall the particulars. If you'll excuse me, I have matters to attend to. Like breakfast."

Sam thanks the man with every appearance of sincerity and nods Vasquez toward the door. When they're safely away, Sam asks, "What do you think?"

In his years at Reyes' ranch, Vasquez had seen fellow vaqueros injure themselves and each other through every means imaginable, serious and stupid and everything in between. Roping, riding, and shooting contests had been common, especially during roundup. Roundup was the only time all the cattle outfits in an area got together, camping out on the range to separate the herds and brand new calves in preparation for the drive. Men determined to prove themselves never put much thought into consequences. "I think he was not lying about cowhands doing stupid things. Not just young ones, either." Most importantly: "And I think we should have waited until after breakfast. _My_ breakfast."

Sam snorts. "I said I'd feed that bottomless pit you call a stomach. Come on."

They eat, as promised, then spend the rest of the morning acquiring the provisions Sam had promised Mrs Newsom and Alonso they'd bring along—"So we don't eat you out of house and home," Sam had said with a pointed glance at Vasquez—and readying the horses for Goodnight, Billy, and Red's return.

Faraday puts in an appearance a little before midday, looking as green as new grass and moving like he has a Gatling strapped to his back, hat pulled low over his eyes as he checks Wild Jack over. Jack bears his rider's unsteady attentions stoically. Vasquez helps Horne load their packhorses and manages to ignore Faraday until he stumbles and slumps against the wall of the livery.

"You going to make it, güero?"

Faraday grunts.

Less than mollified, Vasquez starts over to ensure Faraday isn't as close to death's door as he's making it seem, but Horne puts a hand on his arm and shakes his head. Vasquez turns back to the horses, fingering a girth that needs no tightening.

Outside the livery, Sam's voice rises in greeting. Vasquez takes the distraction for what it is and ducks outside, squinting at the three new arrivals in the sunlight. Goodnight grins as he claps Sam on the shoulder, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"No good?" Sam asks.

"Hardly a soul there to speak to a body," Goodnight confirms. "Even I can't get empty buildings to talk."

"He tried," Red mutters, mouth a flat line. Next to Goodnight, Billy smiles around his cigarette. 

"I did, at that. When a place like that only has one struggling cathouse, it ain't much longer for this world. It was a mining town, Sam, and the mine's dried up. We got the impression that most anyone who stuck around these parts came to Fancy Gap and resettled. If there was a grudge or a flat-out feud, they brought it with them."

Horne and Faraday join the circle as Goodnight details what little they'd learned in Silverton, Faraday settling into place beside Vasquez with a pinched expression. "There's really no one there?"

Goodnight gives Faraday a flat look. "I know you ain't calling me a liar, son, so if you wanted a look-see, perhaps you should have got off your ass and come with us. There was the cathouse and a handful of grizzled old prospectors to patronize it, like I said."

Faraday mutters something to the ground, but he backs off.

Vasquez steps in to steer them back to the subject at hand. "If there are so few people and so many empty places, it would be a good spot for horse thieves to lay low. It does not take much to get desperate people to look the other way." Considering Emma Cullen hadn't breathed a word about Vasquez's outlaw status after Sam had recruited him, they'd all seen proof of that.

Sam nods, a thoughtful frown on his face. "Well, gentlemen, we aren't getting any closer to answers standing here. Let's head out to Newsom Ranch and plan from there."

***

**NEWSOM RANCH**

For a man who'd been drunkenly convinced a woman was going to kill him, Faraday shows no concern whatsoever when they ride past Fancy Gap's cathouse on their way out of town. Not that Vasquez is watching; he just happens to be riding between Faraday and the shopfronts to help curtail Wild Jack's prancing, which only seems to worsen as they point their mounts toward Newsom Ranch.

In fact, the closer they get to the ranch the livelier Wild Jack gets. Faraday, on the other hand, looks like he's riding to the gallows.

When they reach the main gate, Wild Jack shoulders his way to the front of the group and arches his neck to let out a long, loud neigh that makes Faraday's shoulders hunch up around his ears. It's no surprise when Faraday dismounts faster than the rest of them and disappears around the side of the house, presumably to revisit his breakfast in relative privacy. Vasquez shakes his head and catches hold of Jack's reins before he takes off, either after Faraday or toward the neighs that had answered his call. 

Faraday's still missing when Mrs Newsom emerges from the house, thankfully without the rifle she'd greeted them with yesterday. She stands tall on the porch, still in men's clothes, hands on her hips, taking them in. "You got a different way of countin' to seven than most folk, Mr Chisolm?"

"No, ma'am, I just so happen to have brought one idiot whose case of stupid is flaring up somethin' fierce at the moment. There's seven of us, as promised, and I do vouch for the idiot."

Smile in place, Goodnight steps forward to take over the introductions. When he's finished, Mrs Newsom eyes Sam. "You brought Jack Horne and the Angel of Death to defend my horses?"

Goodnight's face goes pinched.

"Yes, ma'am. Wild Bill Hickok was busy, on account of being dead."

She almost cracks a smile but sweeps off the porch before it can happen, all business. "Gentlemen. Follow me, I cleared a corral for your horses." She makes to take Wild Jack's reins, but Horne intervenes. "It might be best to let Red or Vasquez take him, ma'am. He's a mite ornery."

Eyes flashing, she snags the reins anyway. "Just what do you think I do on this horse ranch, Mr Horne? Bat my eyelashes?" Horne stammers out something contrite, but Mrs Newsom ignores him. Wild Jack snorts and lets himself be lead, docile as a lamb. It's too bad Faraday's not around to witness it. (If he doesn't come back soon, Vasquez will have to go make sure he's not face down in a puddle of his own vomit.)

Something on Wild Jack's flank catches Mrs Newsom's attention when he walks past her into the corral. As the other horses file in, she pushes aside Jack's saddlebag to reveal a brand that even from a distance Vasquez can tell is a connected NR—a match to the one she'd shown them on her mare Queenie the day before.

"Where's the man who rode in on this horse?" Mrs Newsom demands, gaze glued to Wild Jack's side. Vasquez catches Sam's eye, but neither of them have time to respond before Mrs Newsom pins them with a glare, steel in her eyes and voice as she demands again, "Where the hell is that good-for-nothing, low-life _thief_?"

Vasquez's shoulders go rigid and the hand not holding his horse's lead drops to his hip, just above the mother-of-pearl grip of his gun. Faraday is a lot of things, but horse thief isn't one of them. Goodnight steps forward to appease Mrs Newsom, but Vasquez is distracted by a touch at his elbow, nudging his hand away from his gun.

"Don't," Faraday mutters. 

"Güero, what—" But he's already past, weaving his way to the front of the group.

The look Mrs Newsom fixes on Faraday makes yesterday's hostile greeting seem downright friendly. "Joshua Faraday, you son of a bitch."

"Don't talk about our ma like that."

There's a charged beat of silence.

"You lousy, low-down, dirty, cheatin', sap-suckin' _coward_!" Mrs Newsom—Faraday's _sister_?—practically howls. "That damn fool woman went to her grave thinkin' you'd come back, and that's all you've got to say?"

"Mattie—"

"Don't you _Mattie_ me!" she roars. She whirls and storms into the house, slamming the door behind her. Something shatters. Half-expecting her to return with her rifle and a burning desire to use it, Vasquez sidles over to put himself between the door and Faraday. 

Faraday has a _sister_.

(A sister who Faraday might've been rightfully—and drunkenly—worried wanted to kill him.)

All six of them turn to stare at Faraday. Faraday stares at his boots. The silence stretches.

Eventually, Horne asks in his high, soft voice, "Anything you want to tell us, son?"

"I..." His hat hides his face, but Vasquez can see Faraday's throat bob. "I didn't steal Wild Jack. I borrowed him. He's back now, ain't he?"

Goodnight sighs. "I believe Jack was mostly referring to the fact that there exists a fairer Faraday for whom we've unwittingly ridden halfway across the country, but I'm sure we're all relieved we've only got to add 'horse borrowing' in lieu of 'horse stealing' to your extensive list of vices. What you stood to gain by not divulging your familial connection to our current objective is the real conundrum here."

Instead of his usual griping about Goodnight's fancy phrasing, Faraday mutters, "I wasn't sure it was her ranch," to the dirt.

Goodnight's slow, "Uh huh," makes it clear how much stock he puts in that excuse.

"How about you mind your own business?"

"I reckon we would have if you hadn't brought us a job that lead directly to your business's ranch," Sam interrupts with raised eyebrows. 

"I had to," Faraday grits out. "She's never wanted my help."

"Well, she's got it now," Sam says. "Unless you were fixin' to leave us to it?" 

Vasquez sucks in a breath and doesn't let it out until Faraday answers, "No."

"Then I suppose you should go on in there and try to make it right." Sam holds up a hand when Faraday opens his mouth. "No, no, I don't give a good goddamn who did what. I know you know how to say the words 'I'm sorry,' otherwise Vasquez would've put you in a shallow grave long before now."

"That is true," Vasquez lies, but Faraday at least stops examining his toes to scowl at him.

"So get to it. Besides, if she's set on shooting you I'd rather know now so we don't have to adjust our plans later to fit six men instead of seven."

"You are one cold bastard, Sam Chisolm." Faraday unbuckles his gun belt and waves Vasquez forward to deposit it in his arms. "She won't shoot me if I'm unarmed. Probably."

Vasquez feels as confident in that proclamation as Faraday sounds. "If that is the case, güero, maybe leave the third one, too."

Faraday's lips thin, but he produces his holdout pistol from its mysterious hidden holster and forks it over, meeting Vasquez's gaze for a split second before taking off at a lope toward the house. He knocks but doesn't wait for a response, ducking inside with a confidence-inspiring, "Don't shoot, Mattie, it's me."

Vasquez, arms full of guns, sighs and turns to the others.

"No thank you," Goodnight declares, palms raised. "I am not touching Ethel or Maria. Or the other one, which I'm sure has an equally charming moniker."

"I did not ask you to."

There's a sharp shout from the main house that makes near everyone jolt. Vasquez looks over in time to see something sail by the window and bang against the wall, followed closely by muffled yelling.

Goodnight lets out a low whistle. "And I thought I had family issues."

"You do," Billy and Sam chorus. 

The ensuing chuckles ease the way into their usual routine of unloading the horses. Vasquez and Red take care of Wild Jack since Faraday is busy surviving Mrs Newsom's considerable anger. Vasquez can't make out any words, but she's doing an awful lot of hollering. No gunshots, though, so by unspoken agreement they leave the siblings to it as they haul their supplies to the vacant bunkhouse. 

The bunkhouse itself is dusty but serviceable, with beds for eight men lined up along the walls, four to each side stacked two high, leaving a comfortable walkway down the middle of the single room. Vasquez claims the bed in the bottom left corner and puts Faraday's guns on the one above it. Faraday seems like the top bunk type. Vasquez had been, once; now he prefers to keep his feet near the ground.

It's edging past twilight by the time Horne rolls up his sleeves to start cooking, sending Red out for fuel for the stove and grudgingly relinquishing the coffee pot to Goodnight. The noises from the main house have long since tapered into an ominous lull, but Faraday has yet to join them, so either Mrs Newsom's lost her voice and run out of things to throw or she's quietly disposed of his body. No one is in a hurry to check.

Alonso arrives at the door around the time Horne stops fussing with the pot, which means it's about suppertime. The boy Jacob is with him, hanging shyly back as introductions are made. "Can you fill two more bellies? It is better if we leave Miss Mattie alone. She is... not in the mood for company."

Sam hums. "Only fair, since we brought along the idiot that made her that way."

Alonso ushers Jacob further inside and Billy gets up to offer the boy his stool at the small table, moving to lean on the wall near Goodnight. Jacob stares at Billy while Horne dishes out the food, but his eyes go round as marbles when Red steps forward to accept a plate he'll force down with his nose wrinkled. There's quiet talk about the ranch and the duties that most need seeing to as they eat, and they learn that Alonso lives in an addition built off the main house where he'd no doubt heard more than he wanted to of the siblings' reunion.

"I did not think I would see Joshua again," Alonso confesses with a sidelong glance at Jacob, who's still staring at Red with unabashed fascination.

Vasquez pauses with his spoon in the air. "You knew him?"

"Knew him? Of course. He worked for the ranch." Obviously taken aback by the surprise on their faces, Alonso concludes, "He did not mention it."

"Not a word," Sam agrees.

"He also did not mention he is Miss Mattie's brother?"

"He surely did not," Goodnight says cheerily. "That was a treat, let me tell you."

It comes out piecemeal that Faraday had lived in the very bunkhouse they're sitting in ten years back, breaking broncs and training the promising ones up as cutters, driving the best to market in Santa Fe, honest as could be. It's rather like hearing Sam had spent his youth robbing stagecoaches, or that Horne had worshipped the devil.

"You're sure you're talking about our Joshua? Drinks whiskey like water, gambles like he's got a fortune to lose, allergic to a hard day's work?"

"He always did like his cards," Alonso recalls, "but most of his wages went to the doctor, on account of his and Miss Mattie's mother. She passed not long after he left. Consumption. I think Miss Mattie would have shot him if he'd come back to help bury her." 

"Seemed like she was givin' it a strong thought earlier."

Alonso shrugs. "When I knew him, he and Miss Mattie were very close. She visited him once a week the entire time he worked here, and he let her ride the horses when they thought they could get away with it. Mr Newsom caught her breaking a bronc and never looked back."

"Romantic," Goodnight says with a pointed glance at Vasquez. "It's a shame Joshua never saw fit to relate the tale."

"It is a shame he left after the wedding and did not return for eight years," Alonso corrects, patting his thighs and rising from the table. "She will worry if Jacob is not back. Thank them for the meal, Jacob." Jacob does and almost scurries directly into the doorframe on his way out, his eyes still glued to Red. Alonso pauses on the threshold to inform them, "If Joshua is still moping on the back porch come morning, I do not know what Miss Mattie will do, but it will not be good."

***

The scrubland dirt crunches under Vasquez's boots as he rounds the back of the main house carrying the plate Horne had fixed for Faraday and held out to Vasquez like there wasn't a question of who'd take it to him. There's only the moon and the faint glow from the house to light the way, so it takes Vasquez a second to spot Faraday sitting in the shadows next to a square of light from one of the windows. He's hunched in on himself, head in his hands and hat askew. 

"Güero."

Faraday startles like he's seen a bona fide ghost, knocking his hat off entirely when he flails to face Vasquez. "Jesus wept, warn a man." 

Vasquez could let it pass. He could, but he won't. " _Do_ you have sand in your ears? I made plenty of noise."

"Fuck off, ya dang Mexican," Faraday grouses, but there's no heat in it. "That for me?"

Vasquez tucks the plate closer to his body. "No. I thought you would like to watch me eat my second supper."

Faraday's nose wrinkles as he makes a show of squinting at Vasquez. "Are you joking? Seems like you could be, but I've seen you eat two suppers more'n once, so I honestly can't tell."

"One of us here has kicked up a fuss over not being allowed to eat bread when his insides had holes, and it was not me."

"That's low. You gonna let me eat or not?" Faraday's looking less down in the mouth, so Vasquez passes it over with a tentative grin.

He sits a few feet away and fishes a cigar and his wooden bell out of his pockets, chewing on the former and rolling the latter between his palms in case Faraday feels like explaining himself. It's a long shot, but the alternative is going back to the bunkhouse to get a head start on listening to Horne's freight train impression and the night is pleasant, if a little cold. He wants to stay.

There are muted clinks and the squeak of footsteps from inside the house, but they die down without anyone coming out to kick them off the porch. The square of light between them, however, flickers once at the corner and stills. Vasquez does not turn toward the window, but he can tell when he's being watched. 

"Can't believe you still have that thing," Faraday mumbles between mouthfuls, gesturing with his spoon.

"This?" Vasquez pinches the bell between his thumb and forefinger, holding it up to the moon. "It reminds me I have done good in the world." It's not the only reason he's kept the little thing, but Faraday doesn't need to know the rest.

He expects a smart remark or a complaint about sentiment, but Faraday doesn't say a word as he finishes eating. He gets up and heads—somewhere, it's difficult to tell in the dark. After a few moments there's the rusty groan and slosh of a water pump. Witnessing Faraday locate the pump near-blind is what finally makes Alonso's tale about Faraday's past feel genuine. Faraday brings back a dipper full of water and offers it to Vasquez before resuming his seat in the shadows. Vasquez waits and does not ask the half-dozen questions gathering behind his teeth.

The silence breaks when Faraday volunteers, "She kicked me out."

"Today?"

Faraday gives him a look. "Yes, today. When else would she have?"

"Alonso came by. Said you used to work here."

"Crusty old coot. Can't believe he's still around." Faraday shakes his head. "I did, but Mattie didn't kick me out back then." He doesn't offer up whatever _had_ happened. "Figured I'd wait it out tonight 'til the rest of y'all were asleep so Goodnight couldn't stick his nose where it don't belong. I'd punch him, Billy'd knife me, and then Mattie'd be disappointed she didn't shoot me when she had the chance."

Despite his own willingness to draw on the woman earlier, it's a little funny now. "It is not so hard to believe she is your sister."

"I can't rightly tell if that's an insult or a compliment to either of us."

"An observation."

Faraday gets to his feet, stalking a few paces into the dark before he stops and tips his face toward the starry sky. "Everything she called me is true, you know."

Maybe some of it is. Vasquez has played cards with him often enough to know that his luck is sometimes of his own making, but Faraday, a coward? "No, I do not think so."

"I ain't askin' what you think, I'm tellin'."

"You cannot tell me what I think, cabrón." He chucks the wooden bell at the back of Faraday's head and grins a little at the noise Faraday makes on impact. He waits until Faraday's spun around to pick the bell out of the dirt to say, "No coward stays to protect a town full of people he barely knows."

"Not runnin' from a fight ain't the same. Worst thing that can happen is you die, and then your problems don't hardly matter." Faraday clears his throat and scrubs the bell on his sleeve, thumbing the notch in the rim like Vasquez has so many times. "You seriously throwin' things at me now, muchacho?"

"Sí. You have done good in the world, too."

Faraday scoffs. "Because Sam bought my borrowed horse out from under me."

With a pang of regret, Vasquez chucks his cigar at Faraday, too.

***

Somewhere between the barn and the bunkhouse, Faraday knocks elbows with Vasquez and holds out the wooden bell. "Here."

"You keep it," Vasquez decides.

"What? Why?"

"Maybe it will remind you not to sulk on you sister's porch."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts: 
>   * I made up Fancy Gap and Silverton, but I kept them as close to real towns as I could.
>   * Don't look up barbed wire injuries. Not pretty.
>   * Consumption was what tuberculosis was called back in the day. There was no cure like there is now.
> 



	4. Chapter 4

**NEWSOM RANCH**

The next few days are filled from sunrise to sunset with the business of running a horse ranch. After sunset, there's always someone keeping watch from the hay door of the barn throughout the night. (Mrs Newsom remains adamant that they're wasting their time with the new moon still a few weeks away, but Sam insists.) Alonso takes charge of the days, organizing them into pairs to take care of both daily chores and jobs long-neglected. Sam is assigned to the more horse-oriented tasks with Alonso, having proven a deft hand with the beasts. Billy and Goodnight end up mucking stalls and cleaning tack more often than not, much to Vasquez's amusement. Red and Horne are exempt from most ranch duties, their time better spent scouring the land for any trace of the thieves' cold trail. Sometimes they're visible in the distance as Vasquez and Faraday ride the fences of the corrals and pastures, checking for damage and repairing as they go.

It's no coincidence that Faraday's been put to work on the one job that keeps him as far away from the main house as possible. He doesn't cross paths with his sister often, but when he does she looks through him like he's made of glass.

"I don't get why she's so dang mad at me," Faraday grumbles one day when they're as far afield from the house and training corral as the fences go. "A little mad, sure, since I borrowed Jack without askin', but I brought him back." 

Vasquez stares at Faraday, who keeps hammering away at the splintered rail they're trying to knock loose, oblivious. Faraday bringing up his sister at all is startling; when Goodnight and Horne had attempted to raise the issue he'd glowered until they'd stopped, a feat in itself with Goodnight involved. But is he really dumb enough to believe she's mad about the _horse_? Considering he'd witnessed Faraday's most recent try at talking to her a scant hour ago—she'd pointedly turned to Vasquez to ask how much wood they'd used for the east corral—maybe he is.

As grudges go, Mrs Newsom is holding fast to hers. Not that Vasquez blames her. "I don't know, güero, maybe she is angry because her only brother hasn't spoken or written to her in eight years." Or maybe she is angry that she had to bury her mother without her brother there, but Vasquez does not say so. Dead mothers are not his business.

"So?" Faraday snaps. "She went and got herself a new family. Didn't need me around no more."

"I am no expert, but I do not think you stopped being her family when she got married." To relieve some of the tightness in his chest, he adds, "The laws in this loco country do not work like that, do they?"

With one last strike the rail splits and swings free. Conversation is put on hold as they scramble to ease the halves to the ground. Faraday doesn't seem keen to pick the subject back up after they heave the replacement timber into position, so Vasquez lets it drop, ever wary of asking for more than Faraday is willing to give.

But Faraday surprises him again as they're inspecting the next section of fence. "I did us both a favor," he claims in a tone that dares Vasquez to argue.

As usual, he dares. It's a little too easy to see Faraday's leaving from Matilda Newsom's perspective. "She does not see it that way. Maybe she liked having you around."

Faraday's mouth opens, closes. Whatever argument he'd been expecting, Vasquez hadn't gotten within a hundred miles of it. He settles on, "I did train the best dang cutters this place ever saw," which is similarly distant to Vasquez's actual meaning, but he lets it go.

"I have been meaning to ask: where are the cattle? The Newsoms must have a herd, yes?" Solid cow sense in the bloodline is all well and good, but it's no replacement for riding with the animals they're meant to control. 

"When I worked here John Newsom had an agreement with Doc Ranch to use their herd for trainin'. Don't rightly know if it still stands."

"Doc Ranch? Owned by Daniel Rattigan?"

"That's the one, though it was still his daddy's ranch back then. I never spoke to either of 'em, to be honest."

Vasquez groans and scrubs a hand over his face. "Daniel Rattigan, the man your sister rejected?"

Faraday frowns. "Huh. Forgot about that. How'd you—y'don't think he's still sore about it?"

"Güero, I _know_ he is still sore about it. Rattigan is the rich man I met in the saloon." Stupid of him to not think of Rattigan sooner, but every town they pass through seems to have its own interchangeable set of arrogant white men hardly worth remembering.

"Oh. _Oh_." Faraday straightens up, looking down the stretch of fence they'd planned to finish before nightfall and then back toward the house, hardly a speck in the distance. "Seems like somethin' Sam oughta know."

"At supper," Vasquez suggests. "The fence will not fix itself."

Faraday's face scrunches up. "This is exactly the sorta thing I left to get away from, y'know."

Vasquez rolls his eyes and leads the carthorse onward. Faraday sighs loudly, but the crunch of his footsteps starts up before Vasquez has gone more than a few paces. 

An hour's work later, a welcome breeze stirs a few long hairs caught on the next section of fence. There's always a use for horsehair, so Vasquez reaches out to tug them free but pauses when the wood under his fingers comes to an unnaturally regular point.

They're not snagged on a splinter or a notch. There's a vertical _cut_ running nearly the height of the rail, a few inches from the post. Vasquez bumps his shoulder into Faraday's and points. 

(If he's honest with himself, being partnered with Faraday has driven him half out of his mind. The nature of the work necessitates that they're never more than a few feet from each other, always brushing arms or hands or standing shoulder to shoulder to place a rail. It's so _easy_ to fall into the habit of getting Faraday's attention with a touch instead of words, and the desire to keep touching flares every damn time.)

Faraday bends to inspect the mark, frowning, then hoists himself into the pasture using a sturdy section they've already checked over. "Looks pretty dang deliberate," he decides, thumbing the cut. He glances up at Vasquez, who abruptly notices Faraday's eyes are the same shade of green as Mrs Newsom's and Jacob's. Vasquez swallows and steps away to examine the rest of the rail and quickly discovers a second cut near the other post. One could be written off as a careless mistake of construction, but two? 

Heeding his growing suspicion, Vasquez crouches and finds the other rails in the same condition. Faraday crouches too, but he reaches into the scrubby grass growing below the fence and comes up with a pinch of sawdust in his fingers.

"That is not good."

"Y'think? As far as you can get from the house and the bunkhouse, plenty of space for a horse to pass if they finish sawin' through, and I'm pretty dang sure Doc Ranch," Faraday pauses to brush the sawdust from his hands and points out over the scrubland, "is thataway."

Vasquez leans his weight into the top rail and pushes just hard enough that something cracks. "I think... you are right."

"Sorry, what was that? Didn't quite hear you."

"I said—" Vasquez breaks off at Faraday's widening grin. "You heard me, cabrón."

"C'mon, Vas. One more time?" Their elbows knock together when Faraday leans against the fence from the other side, his smile sly and teasing. Then he puts on an accent so terrible that Vasquez is affronted on behalf of every Spanish speaker on the continent. "'Faraday, you are so incredibly right, I am sure you have never been wrong about anything in your whole life.'"

"Is that what I said?" Vasquez taps his chin and pretends to think. "That does not sound like me. Maybe it was more like, 'Güero, for once in your life, you might be right.'"

"You said I was right again, so it counts." Despite the fence separating them, Faraday is so close that Vasquez can see the lines at the corners of his eyes deepen with the stretch of his smile. Vasquez straightens and puts the fence at arm's length, but the absence of his weight causes it to crackle ominously and give an inch outward. Faraday yelps and jerks backward, trips over a clump of grass, and lands on his ass.

Vasquez nearly joins him on the ground, doubled over and wheezing with laughter.

***

The tack room smells of leather, soap, and neatsfoot oil, so disconcertingly familiar that it feels like one step has taken Vasquez hundreds of miles to the barn on Reyes' ranch in Texas. The illusion fades like smoke when their shadows fall across Sam and the saddle he's buffing. "Trouble?" Sam asks after a glance at their faces.

"Ain't good," Faraday replies. "Got a spoke in the wheel."

They explain about the fence. Sam takes it calmly, but Alonso surges to his feet, sending the bucket he'd been sitting on clattering to its side. "Where?" he demands, already pushing between them and out the door.

"West pasture, as far from the house as you can get." There's precious little else to describe the spot; no cover to speak of, no distinguishing landmarks nearby—Vasquez would bet his medallion that whoever did the sawing had to be familiar with the ranch just to find it again, especially in the dark of a new moon.

Alonso swears rapidly in Spanish and storms out of the stables. Vasquez and Faraday exchange a look before turning back to Sam, who rights the bucket and sets the saddle he'd been working on aside. "I reckon Mrs Newsom will want to know about this."

"I'm coming with you," Faraday declares despite no one suggesting otherwise. "Got some questions for Mattie that might get us a lead."

They find Mrs Newsom in the east corral on a buckskin gelding, weaving in and out of a series of hay bales. She's an excellent rider; Vasquez would’ve been happy to have her along on a drive. Jacob is perched on the fence next to a coiled lasso and waves so hard he nearly topples off when he spots them. He's been a cheerful child, protected from the harsh reality of the situation Newsom Ranch is facing. He believes wholeheartedly that they're gunslinging heroes straight from a tall tale, come to right wrongs with a wave of their guns. Vasquez cannot blame Mrs Newsom for shielding him; it is all too easy to recall the fear on the children's faces in Rose Creek. It's no surprise when she rides over, takes one look at them, and sends Jacob to collect eggs from the chicken coop despite his plaintive protests.

"Y’all look like you've got a funeral to get to." She swings down from the saddle and rubs the gelding on the withers before offering him a sugar cube from her pocket. Vasquez has yet to see her in anything but trousers.

"Nah, Sam always dresses like that." Faraday steps forward quick as a snake before she can deliberately address Sam or Vasquez. "Vas and I found the next place they're plannin' to break through the fence. West pasture. Alonso's out lookin' at it now."

Mrs Newsom swears long, loud, and creative enough to burn the ears off a sailor. Even Sam's eyes widen a fraction when her tirade winds down with a promise to, "Shoot the bastards in the goddamn _balls_ and let Queenie _stomp_ on 'em."

A little afraid Mrs Newsom will redirect her anger onto her brother should Faraday dare to speak again, Vasquez says, "It is good, though: we know where they will strike. There is no cover, but we will think of something, I am sure." _Something_ will probably involve a lot of digging.

"Jus' goddamn peachy," Mrs Newsom growls. "I s'pose we'll find out who the bastards are when they come."

"About that," Faraday says with the utter lack of self-preservation Vasquez should really be used to by now. "Y'all still got that deal with Doc Ranch to use their herd for training?"

"What's that got to do with anything?" she snaps. Before Faraday can reply, she turns to Sam. "I thought you were in charge, Mr Chisolm."

Sam's lips press into a thin line, though whether he's flattening a smile or a frown Vasquez can't decide. "Inasmuch as I'm the one with the government licence, ma'am. It's a combined effort."

Vasquez can practically hear Mrs Newsom's teeth grind together before she answers Faraday. "We don't. Never had it in writin', and that son of a bitch Rattigan decided the agreement didn't exist after John went east. He _was_ gracious enough to tell me I could still sell him our cutters at a discount on account of the long-standin' friendship between our families. Mighty kind of him." She spits in the dirt.

"So you stopped selling to him completely," Faraday concludes.

"I said he was welcome to pay what our horses are worth. Sentiment ain't nothin' a body can spend." Mrs Newsom scowls. "He took his business elsewhere. Good riddance."

Faraday's brow furrows. "Took it where?"

"Don't rightly know. I told Alonso I'd rather set our stock loose in the desert than sell one more to the likes of him, so I kept my nose out of it."

"How have you been training the horses?" Vasquez breaks in before Faraday can open his mouth again.

"I'd planned to buy a herd of our own, maybe a hundred head, nothing big, but the ranch lost so many men we couldn't drive the horses we had to Santa Fe even without throwin' cows into the mix. Then the thievin' started. It's been a helluva year." She bares her teeth in a mockery of a grin. "You fellas just about outta questions? I've got work to do."

"Got a few more, ma'am." Sam sounds genuinely apologetic. "Doc Ranch is where Clarence went to work after he left here, isn't it?"

"It is," Mrs Newsom allows. "A few of the others did, too, but Clarence... his job here was a favor to his ma. Not much under that boy's hat but hair."

Sam cocks his head and turns to Vasquez. "And wasn't Doc Ranch where that doctor said he patched up some men a few weeks ago?" 

"Sí."

"And you told Daniel Rattigan you'd rather marry a rattlesnake than let him court you," Faraday puts in.

"That a question?" Mrs Newsom grits out.

He grins. "Nah, just seein' if I remembered it right."

Sam, on the other hand, is frowning. "The first time we came out you mentioned Daniel Rattigan has the sheriff's ear."

(Mrs Newsom's description definitely hadn't had anything to do with _ears_.)

Mrs Newsom crosses her arms over her chest. "I get what y'all're implyin', but Rattigan can't cut a lame cow from a shade tree. No way in hell does he have the know-how or the balls to sneak onto my land and steal my damn horses."

He'd only met the man once, but Vasquez can't imagine it either. What he _can_ imagine is Rattigan trying to climb over a fence and ripping the thin fabric of his needlessly expensive catalog-cowhand getup on a splinter. "Eh, maybe not him, but the men who work for him? The ones that worked here, who know it well? It is possible."

"There ain't no way to prove if Rattigan's the one behind it even if the sons of bitches who come _are_ his men. He'll pay their way outta trouble if we catch 'em alive, and if we don't—hell, Sheriff Dunn will try to bring every last one of us in for murder." Mrs Newsom pauses and sucks in a breath, looking each of them square in the eyes. "I can't let that happen to Jacob or the ranch, understand?"

"I—we won't let it come to that, Mattie," Faraday says. "I'll march over to Doc Ranch and shoot Rattigan myself if need be."

Mrs Newsom gapes. For a moment it seems like she might be too stunned to reply, even to scold Faraday for calling her Mattie, but then her mouth snaps shut and a scowl so fierce settles over her broad features that Vasquez barely stops himself from tugging Faraday out of punching range. "That is the stupidest thing that's ever come out of your damn fool mouth, and I heard you tell Douglas Fisher you could ride Devil's Canyon blindfolded, backwards, and drunk, so that's sayin' a whole helluva lot."

Faraday scowls back, but Vasquez is so close he hadn't missed the flinch that came first. "You think I won't do it?"

This time he does reach out to catch Faraday by the elbow. "I have an idea," he announces and explains about how Rattigan had offered him a job their first night in Fancy Gap. "I go, see what I can find, yes?"

"Bad idea," Faraday wastes no time deciding.

"It could work," Sam disagrees.

"Don't rightly know what there could be to be found," Mrs Newsom chimes in, though she seems reluctant to do so. "Doc Ranch already had dozens of horses with our brand on 'em before the thievin' started. Even if we could compare their books with mine, there's no sure way to tell if there's more than there ought to be. If the thieves have an ounce of sense they'll have altered some of the brands, too."

"There, ya see? Terrible," Faraday reiterates. 

"I will come up with something." Vasquez shrugs, already thinking through the possibilities. "Cowhands talk."

"Did you forget there's a price on your head? Y'can't go off on your lonesome, idiot. Ain't safe."

"There's a what now?" Mrs Newsom asks, voice flatter than the prairie.

Faraday's wide-eyed alarm would be incredibly funny under other circumstances.

Miraculously, Mrs Newsom's response to their hasty explanation of Vasquez's outlaw status isn't to go for her rifle, which is good since Vasquez has taken to leaving his guns in the bunkhouse when he and Faraday head out in the mornings. She only sighs and asks, "Anything else you neglected to mention about your crew, Mr Chisolm? Is one of 'em the ghost of Wild Bill Hickok?"

Vasquez snorts, but Sam takes the question seriously.

"An army fort out west may have put a price on Jack's head. The man, not the horse. Never did get the details on that one." Sam rubs his chin. "Billy might've had a warrant a few years back. Never got the full story there, either."

Her eyes narrow. "Any of those for horse stealing?"

"I don't believe so."

"And these men have all somehow earned the trust of a warrant officer?"

"Yes, ma'am. I've put my life in each of their hands, and I'd do it again, no question."

Mrs Newsom turns her attention to Faraday, who manages to shrug and angle himself slightly in front of Vasquez in the same motion. Vasquez can't see Faraday's face, but Mrs Newsom's expression softens. "All right then. Lord knows I need whatever help I can get; I won't judge where it comes from. Anyone gets nosy, I don't know a dang thing." She tips her hat up to rub her forehead and adds, "Maybe don't mention any of this to Alonso. Or Jacob."

"Yes, ma'am," Sam says again. "Wouldn't have been mentioned at all if Faraday'd kept his mouth shut."

"I still say it's a bad idea," Faraday grumbles.

Vasquez is starting to think Faraday doesn't trust him. He doesn't _need_ Faraday to trust him, but—but nothing. He will do what needs to be done. 

"You heard the lady," Sam says, mild. "We need proof a shady sheriff can't dismiss out of hand, and Doc Ranch just so happens to have the only two leads we've got. Vasquez has a legitimate reason to show up on their doorstep, assuming this Rattigan remembers a job offer he made in a saloon. You got something better than shooting a potentially innocent man?"

Faraday doesn't, but he's too stubborn to say so.

***

Better ideas are scarce at supper, too, so Vasquez drags his saddlebags out from under his bunk to repack his meager belongings and pats down his vest pockets to make sure everything is in its place. The long-familiar lump of the wooden bell is the only thing missing, but he knows exactly where that is.

Horne is watching him from his spot near the cookstove, a bit of wood from a cracked fence post starting to take new shape under the rhythmic scrape of his knife. "Give Red Harvest and I some time tomorrow to find anything out near that west pasture," he suggests. "There's a lot of land out there; the Lord may see fit to guide us to something yet."

Red grunts. "It's a place to start."

"Here's an idea," Faraday mutters from where he's sacked out on the bunk above Vasquez's with an arm over his eyes. The skin of his forearm is mottled and raised, scarred from the burns he'd suffered during the fight at Rose Creek. "We all wait for the next raid, ambush 'em, then threaten to shoot their ears off if they lie to the goddamn sheriff." 

"There is a certain convenience to the scoundrels turning up of their own accord," Goodnight says through a plume of exhaled smoke.

"That's still part of the plan," Sam chides. "The ambush, not the ear shooting, though it'll be a tricky thing in the dark. They won't be taking any more horses."

"I could cut their ears off," Billy offers. 

Faraday rolls over onto his elbow, putting him eye level with Vasquez. "None of that was my actual point."

Vasquez crosses his arms. "Is the point that you do not think I can do it?" He knows how a cattle ranch is supposed to run; if there's anything strange going on, he'll find it.

"No!" Faraday starts to sit up and hits his head on the ceiling. " _Ow._ No, it's that you've got less than two weeks to find whatever this proof is that you seem to think exists. D'you think there'll be a signed confession layin' around? Or one of the thieves will have a sudden change of heart and confide in the new fella?" His curled lip speaks volumes. "What if one of them recognizes you and decides that five hundred dollars would look real nice in his pocket, huh?"

Vasquez would kill the man and run, like he would anywhere—anywhere without Sam, Horne, and Red to hoodwink an amateur bounty hunter into thinking his eyes had deceived him. Instead of saying so, he leans in, anger bubbling, teeth bared. "That sounds an awful lot like you do not think I can do it, cabrón."

"I _just said_ that ain't it."

"So you want to try your sister's luck on threats? Maybe we should wait for the thieves to turn themselves in."

Faraday's bunk creaks as he leans in, too, putting their faces so close Vasquez can see the flecks of brown ringing his pupils. "Leave Mattie out of—"

A thunderous clang reverberates through the air. Vasquez jumps and whirls, reaching for guns that aren't there; Faraday jerks and hits his head on the ceiling again. 

From the kitchen end of the bunkhouse, a straight-faced Sam says, "Oops," and lets the cast iron skillet clatter back to the stovetop. "You boys were about done, weren't you?"

Blood pounding in his ears, Vasquez throws his saddlebags onto his bunk and sneers. "I am taking first watch." He snatches a lantern and a rifle from the shelves by the door without breaking stride and continues toward the barn without looking back, ignoring the murmurs in his wake.

After everything they've been through, Faraday doesn't trust him. That's fine. Vasquez has only fought an army with him, dragged his unconscious and bleeding body off a battlefield, stuck around afterward for far too long listening to all his complaints during his recovery, missed him even though he'd left without a word of warning, forgiven a solid month of being given the cold shoulder, shared drinks and cigarillos, hauled his drunk ass to bed _and_ not held any of the drunken bullshit that came out of his mouth against him, traveled halfway across the country to the territory next to the state where his warrant originated to help his damn _family_ —

A vicious kick knocks a hay bale askew. He's on the verge of a second when a striped barn cat darts out from between the bale and the wall, quick as a shot. He stumbles back in surprise, his "Mierda!" mingling with the cat's yowl of displeasure as it tears out of the barn into the falling twilight. He stares after it for a moment, anger fizzling, then steadies the swinging lantern, rubs his eyes, and takes a handful of deep breaths before patting down his pockets. Cigar clamped between his teeth, he climbs the ladder to the hayloft.

The hay door is already open, so he sits at the edge of the platform and lets his legs hang over the side. He extinguishes the lantern, chewing on his cigar and watching the sky change colors as he tries to think of nothing.

It works for a few minutes.

Loose hay rustles down below. Maybe it's the barn cat come back, if it's the brave sort, but the scrape of hay stops and the ladder begins to creak. Probably not even Newsom Ranch cats climb ladders. It'll be Red, if he's lucky, or Goodnight in a nosy mood if he's not.

"Vas?"

Luck's never liked him much.

"No tengo nada que decirte." It's a lie, but everything he wants to say involves a good deal of profanity, and the temptation to shove Faraday out the hay door might overwhelm him if he gets started.

The creaks pause. "Okay, I guess I deserved that." 

Unable to help himself, Vasquez twists around. "You do not know—" Faraday isn't there. Vasquez blinks. What _is_ there is a scrap of pale cloth tied to a stick, whipping back and forth. "What are you doing?"

"Waving a white flag, what's it look like? Well, it's yellow, but Goodnight wouldn't loan me the white one. Can I come up?"

"Will I regret it if I say yes?"

"Hell, I don't know. Probably."

Vasquez sighs past his cigar. "Fine."

The stick disappears, replaced shortly by the top of Faraday's head as he peers over the last rung, cautious. "You sure?"

"You are making me not sure, cabrón."

Faraday hauls the rest of himself up and sags onto a bale a small distance from the hay door. In the fading light, Vasquez can see the makeshift flag poking out of Faraday's empty holster. He waits for Faraday to speak. Faraday doesn't.

"Well?"

"Hold your horses, will ya? I'm thinking."

Vasquez bites down an automatic retort and draws one leg up to hook an elbow around his knee.

The first pale stars appear as the dusky twilight deepens to a richer blue. The moon is nearly full, striping the loft in soft gray light through the slats in the walls. Finally, when he's little more than a moving shadow, Faraday says, "Thing is, I thought I made myself clear back in... wherever the hell that was when Goodnight's horse threw a shoe. Dirty Branch? Dry Tree? Who names these places?"

Vasquez plucks the cigar from his mouth. "Does it matter?"

What matters is why Faraday followed him to the barn, so of course Faraday will talk around it. He has no idea what Faraday stalking him through the dusty streets of one of the many nowheres they've passed through has to do with anything. The only thing the clumsy apology he'd received from Faraday back then has made clear now is that Vasquez is an idiot for forgiving him so easily.

"Maybe it was Forked Stick. Twisted Twig?"

"Güero."

Rocking forward on the bale, Faraday blurts out, "I don't want you to die! Especially not because of me and my family. All right?"

"All right," Vasquez echoes, nonplussed. "I wasn't planning on it."

Faraday makes a strangled noise. "That's my dang point! You don't know what you're walking into. If someone on that ranch has seen your poster, they've got you dead to rights."

It doesn't catch Vasquez quite as off-guard as it had the first time, but Faraday all but admitting to worrying about him lights an ember under his ribs that has nothing to do with anger. He should be annoyed, but any lingering irritation has burned clean away.

More gently than he intends, he says, "I was seen plenty in Fancy Gap. Tracking me here would not be difficult for a bounty hunter, but no one has come. Doc Ranch will either be dangerous, or it won't." He shrugs and lets himself grin to see if Faraday will react, but he doesn't. "If Daniel Rattigan or Clarence Thompson are stealing from your sister, I will find out."

"I know you will. I just don't understand why you _want_ to. You don't gotta stick your neck out for..."

Vasquez's grin fades. He rolls to his feet and picks his way over until he can tap the vest pocket Faraday's been keeping the wooden bell in. "Doing good in the world, remember?"

Faraday blinks up at him. Belatedly, Vasquez snatches his hand back from Faraday's chest, but Faraday grabs his wrist. His breath catches in his throat and he waits.

"If you're so set on being a stubborn ass about it, this might be your last night here." Faraday's grip tightens. "I got a proposition for you."

The ember flares into a wildfire. There's no mistaking what Faraday is offering, though Vasquez can scarcely believe his ears. His mouth is desert-dry, but he swallows and manages a hoarse, "Oh?"

"I know you know what I mean this time."

Vasquez barks out a raspy laugh. "It was plenty clear the first time, too."

"I meant—you know what, never mind."

"You meant what?"

Faraday lets go of his wrist and ducks his head to mumble to his lap, "I wasn't talkin' about the first time."

"That was the only time," Vasquez ventures, confused. He'd been the one to start things in the Rose Creek livery, for all that it'd gone nowhere. After Amador City there'd never been so much as a hint that Faraday wanted anything to do with him like that with the possible exception of a time or two when Faraday'd been drunk, but that'd been the whiskey and his own misplaced optimism talking, not Faraday.

( _Had_ it been Faraday?)

"I was trying to be a little more suave about it. Maybe I shoulda asked Goodnight for some fancy words."

"Suave?" Vasquez repeats, incredulous. "What do you care about being suave?"

"Can we just—do you want to or not?"

It's a terrible idea. What he wants and what Faraday is offering are two different things with just enough overlap to get his heart stomped on—again, he can admit to himself—but the part of him that's constantly aware he's living on borrowed time urges him to take what he can get when he can get it and damn the consequences.

He should say no. He should, but he won't.

"There is one problem," he says conversationally while planting one knee on the bale next to Faraday's hip. Steadying himself on Faraday's shoulder, he swings his other leg over to straddle Faraday's thighs. Faraday's tongue darts out to wet his lips and his hands close on Vasquez's waist.

"What, uh. What's that?"

Nearly nose to nose, he answers, "I am supposed to be on watch."

Faraday's thumbs dig into the flesh just above his hips. "You're joking, right? It's practically a full moon. No one's coming."

Vasquez starts snickering. "No one? Maybe this is not worth my time, hm?"

"That ain't—Jesus wept, why do I try to talk to you?" He stretches up and tugs Vasquez down, mashing their mouths together without finesse, his primary aim obviously to stifle Vasquez's laughter.

It works, but Vasquez gentles the kiss, tilting his head to lick at the seam of Faraday's lips and sliding his arms around his neck. Sitting on top of Faraday gives him more control than being pushed up against a wall, so he takes his time. He doesn't stop Faraday's hands as they rove toward his various buttons, but he doesn't help, either. Faraday's skin tastes of sweat and dust, his mouth of coffee, all of it warm and pliant under his tongue.

At some point Faraday's blunt fingers worm their way under Vasquez's shirt to splay over the barbed wire scars on his back, stroking the arc of them over and over until Vasquez distracts him with a hard kiss.

When he tries to sit back, determined to actually touch Faraday's cock this time, one of Faraday's arms clamps around his waist, pinning him in place. Faraday yanks at the collar of Vasquez's shirt until he can press his teeth against Vasquez's throat with the right amount of pressure to make his cock jump in his pants. Vasquez rocks forward with a helpless groan that refuses to be contained. He can feel Faraday's grin against his neck and squirms until the arm loosens and he can inch back to reach for Faraday's fly. Faraday's breath stutters when Vasquez gets a hand wrapped around his cock, already hard and wet at the tip.

(Vasquez has a list a mile long of things he'd like to do with Faraday, but this is enough.)

It should feel impersonal with their disheveled clothes still mostly on, but pressed this close, their panting breaths mingling in the dark, Vasquez can only revel in the fact that it's Faraday under him, Faraday's head lolling back as his hand speeds up, Faraday bringing a fist up to his mouth to stifle his own moans when he comes.

Chest heaving, Faraday gets out, "That ain't how... this was s'posed to go."

"No?" Vasquez wipes his hand on the hay and tucks Faraday back in his drawers. "I think... you are wrong."

Faraday makes a sound that's half-laugh, half-groan. "Y'think?" He slides his hands up the outside of Vasquez's thighs and then under his ass, urging him up onto his knees. He presses his cheek against Vasquez's still-hard cock through his pants and anything Vasquez might've been about to say deserts him as he tries not to rock his hips against Faraday's face. Vasquez is the one who nearly chokes when Faraday undoes his fly and swallows him down without fanfare, hotter and wetter than anything he's felt in—months, years, forever.

Knowing it's _Faraday_ —Vasquez almost comes then and there, clutching at Faraday's broad shoulders. He bites down hard on his own tongue; he can't let it end so soon. The burn in his muscles from holding himself steady provides sufficient distraction until he realizes the way Faraday is grabbing at the backs of his thighs means he _wants_ Vasquez to move his hips. 

At his first tentative thrust, one of Faraday's big hands moves to encircle the base of his cock and the other gets a firm palmful of his ass, encouraging the motion.

There's no lasting after that.

His warning only gets as far as, "Güerito, I'm—" before it turns into a moan and he comes in Faraday's mouth.

He sinks onto his heels, wrung out and weary. Dully he registers Faraday twisting and hears him spit somewhere behind them, one hand leaving Vasquez's leg so he can drag the back of his hand over his mouth. The faint stripes of moonlight catch on the glint of a grin and Vasquez—can't. He slumps over to rest his forehead on Faraday's shoulder with a shuddering sigh.

Sounding smug, Faraday informs him, "That was more what I had in mind."

Vasquez grunts in return, weak-kneed and maybe shaking a little. If Faraday will let him stay like this, just for a minute, he'll be able to tuck his feelings away, pretend this isn't anything more than Faraday thinks it is. He can do it in the dark.

He could do it if there weren't a hand on his back, trailing up the length of his spine and cupping the nape of his neck.

"All right?" Faraday murmurs, smug lilt gone soft.

At least he'd been right about something: it had been a terrible idea. He swallows and rasps, "Bueno," before clambering off Faraday and buttoning his pants. Spending the rest of his watch with Faraday's spit drying on his cock will be its own special reminder of how stupid he is.

The hay bale crackles as Faraday's weight shifts, but he doesn't get up. Vasquez desperately wants to sit next to him, lean into him, pass the night in warmth and company, but he cannot do these things. Faraday did not offer and he won't—can't—ask for them.

What he should do is make a joke, tease Faraday, offer him a smoke, a drink. Something that's normal for them. Instead he stands there in the dark, unwilling to go back to the hay door to keep watch and step into the brunt of the moonlight, afraid of what's written across his face should Faraday care to look; afraid, too, that Faraday doesn't care to look.

Faraday makes a noise in his throat and the hay crackles again before falling silent with the lack of a body atop it. "Hold up a minute," Faraday says despite the fact Vasquez hasn't moved since he got to his feet. He climbs down the ladder and rummages around in the barn below as Vasquez grows more bewildered by the second. 

That Faraday returns at all is that much more bewildering, but return he does, something tucked under his arm. He pats Vasquez on the chest when he passes, kicking at a loose pile of straw near another bale by the hay door before unfolding the something—a blanket—and spreading it out over the lot. He steps back, hands on his hips, and looks at Vasquez over his shoulder. "Alonso always kept a few spares out here," he explains, like the pressing question is where the blanket came from and not what the hell he's doing.

One way to find out. "What are you doing?"

Faraday flops gracelessly onto the blanket-covered hay pile. "Keepin' you company, what's it look like?" He pulls his flask out of his vest and unscrews the lid, taking a swig before holding it out with an enticing waggle.

Slowly, Vasquez crosses the loft and sits. Faraday's setup is close enough to the hay door that they can see what little of the ranch there is to see at night. Granted, the blanket smells like anything left in a barn smells, but it is less scratchy than the hay. That doesn't explain the _why_ of it, but Vasquez can't bring himself to ask again. 

When he takes the flask, Faraday's empty hand drops to his thigh. His whole body lights up at the touch, driving away the numbness that had crept over him. He almost misses his mouth when he goes to take a drink. 

After they've passed the flask back and forth a few times, Faraday asks, "Wanna know something all-fired stupid?"

"Sí."

Vasquez expects a tale about Devil's Canyon, something half-bullshit but entertaining like any of Faraday's stories. What he hopes for is likely even more stupid than whatever's about to come out of Faraday's mouth: that Faraday will say he made a mistake disappearing from Rose Creek the way he had, that he should've stuck around and taken Sam up on his offer like Vasquez had hoped he would. What Vasquez gets is... neither of those things.

"I wanted to be a cowhand when I was a kid. Go on drives, roundup, all that. Seemed like an adventure, 'specially to a kid from a mining town. Couldn't, though, with Ma sick the way she was."

Dead mothers are still not his business, so he latches on to the least dangerous bit. "Vaqueros are stupid now, hm?"

Faraday's hand leaves Vasquez's leg long enough to elbow him in the side. "Not what I said, muchacho. The job ain't stupid. It was stupid that I wanted to do it. I knew I couldn't leave Mattie and Ma without my wages for the months it took to go on a drive and get back, but I tried gettin' hired on at a few ranches anyway. Mattie near took my head off when she heard. Called me all sorts of names and told me to get the hell out 'cause she didn't need my help, anyway."

"But you didn't."

"Not then, I didn't," Faraday says, tucking his chin to his chest. "Took a job here since herding horses down to Santa Fe didn't take near as long as drivin' cattle up north, but it seemed close, y'know? Stayed until I knew John Newsom'd pay for anything Ma and Mattie needed, and then I got the hell out, just like she wanted." He holds his hand out for the flask, but Vasquez does not give it to him, even when he wiggles his fingers impatiently. "C'mon, I ain't gonna share if you're gonna hog it." 

He keeps the flask at arm's length. While the prospect of Faraday climbing over him to wrestle it away isn't exactly discouraging, he has to do something about how Faraday still genuinely seems to believe his sister would rather never lay eyes on him for the rest of her natural life. Maybe it takes an outsider to see that she'd been afraid her brother would leave her behind and then he'd gone and done just that. "Güerito, do you think she would be so mad at you for leaving if that was really what she wanted?" 

The arm reaching for the flask dips at the elbow. "She's always mad about somethin'. Folks in Silverton called her 'Mad Mattie' behind her back."

"What did they call you?"

"'Trouble', on account of how I went after anyone I heard callin' her names. Didn't do much when I was small, but I knocked out a prospector's teeth when I was fourteen or fifteen. What was left of 'em, anyway. Folks got more respectful after that."

It is so easy to picture that Vasquez forgets he is trying to keep the flask away from Faraday until Faraday lunges, one hand pinning Vasquez's thigh to the blanket, the other outstretched. Vasquez yelps and curls in on himself automatically, bringing the flask within easy snatching distance.

Somehow Faraday manages to drink smugly, still half on top of Vasquez. "The hell's a where-ee-toe, anyway?"

"An idiot," Vasquez answers flatly.

"You never said what where-o means, either."

"Also an idiot."

Faraday's whiskey-scented sigh puffs against his cheek. "Were you mad?"

"What?"

"When I decided not to go with Sam."

Vasquez's jaw works. Nothing comes out. 

Oblivious, Faraday carries on, slurring a little. "I got the idea in m'head that I should check up on her. Mattie, I mean. Heard 'bout the horse thieves somewhere in Utah territory and turned right back around."

"Because you thought she would not want your help," Vasquez remembers and Faraday hums an agreement.

Of course Faraday had only ended up in Amador City because of his sister. He'd said as much when the seven of them had first shown up at Newsom Ranch, but Vasquez hadn't really considered the implications until now. If Matilda Newsom hadn't been in need of help, he never would have seen Faraday again. It's a sobering thought, so he slips the flask out of Faraday's loosening grip and tips his head back to drain the rest. He almost chokes on it when Faraday's head droops onto his shoulder and he nuzzles—there's no other word for it—into Vasquez's neck.

"The kid wassa surprise. Mattie always said she never—" Faraday yawns. "Never wanted any." He noses the cord holding Vasquez's medallion and Vasquez's arms break into gooseflesh at the scrape of his beard. "Y'said y'did, though." Before he can begin to process that half-truth in his fuzzing brain, Faraday asks, "D'you think she'd be less mad at me for comin' back if I told her 'bout Rose Creek?"

The world is beginning to waver at the edges. He has to concentrate on each syllable to get his answer out in the right order. "She is not mad at you for coming back. She is mad at you for leaving."

Faraday mutters something indistinct into his throat. Vasquez shivers and closes his eyes. He forces them open when he remembers he is supposed to be keeping watch, but they slip shut again as his head dips toward Faraday's.

***

It's uncomfortably warm and painfully bright when Vasquez next cracks his eyes open. His tongue feels thick in his mouth as he squints into the sunrise, beaming in through the open hay door with a viciousness only produced by a night of drinking.

When he tries to roll away from the light, he can't. The warmth isn't all the sun's fault—there's something on his chest. The barn cat? Licking his lips, he blinks a few times to clear his vision and peers down at a ruffled mess of auburn hair. 

He blinks again, sure he's dreaming Faraday snoring into his ribs, but nothing changes. Probably there would not be so much drool in a dream.

Neck aching, he lets his head fall back. Amidst Faraday's snores there's another sound, quieter, steady, almost like footsteps. But it's coming from somewhere overhead, and the only thing above the hayloft are a few rafters and the sloped barn roof. The footstep-sound stops and he almost has himself convinced he's imagined it when a pair of booted feet appear, dangling from the top of the hay door. A moment later Red lands crouched on the loft platform, light as a cat.

"Morning," Red says. It's more statement than pleasantry.

Vasquez stares. Red raises his eyebrows like dropping down from the roof is a normal thing to do and silently circles around the rumpled blanket to reach the ladder. He ignores it and jumps to the ground.

"Qué carajo," Vasquez mumbles and shakes Faraday awake.

***

The morning is strange in how completely normal it is. By the time Vasquez and Faraday clamber down from the hayloft—using the ladder like sane people—Red and Horne have already ridden out to the west pasture to search for any signs of the horse thieves' trail, but there's still breakfast and coffee to be had in the bunkhouse. 

(The bunkhouse they obviously hadn't slept in the night before. Vasquez's saddlebags are still on his bunk where he'd dropped them, but no one says a word about it. Later it dawns on him that Goodnight and Billy have shown up for breakfast in just the same manner more than once.)

Faraday is the strangest part. 

They hadn't spoken beyond what had been necessary to locate Faraday's flask buried in the straw after Red's startling appearance, but Vasquez had expected... something. Something that isn't Faraday acting exactly as he has since they got to Newsom Ranch, but that's all he gets: everything just as it's been.

Vasquez is at the table shoveling eggs into his mouth and talking to Sam when Faraday joins the conversation by coming up behind his chair and clapping him on the shoulder. It's nothing out of the ordinary, but Vasquez's thoughts bolt like a spooked yearling. Which is unfortunate since Sam is probably saying something important, but Vasquez's mind is suddenly somewhere between hay bales and blankets. When Faraday squeezes his shoulder, Vasquez blinks up at the expectation on Sam's face, completely lost.

When Vasquez fails to do anything but continue staring, Faraday squeezes again and answers, "If we have to," presumably for the both of them.

Sam nods, satisfied, and leaves. Faraday slides around to his vacated stool and frowns. "You all right there, muchacho?"

Vasquez grunts and scrapes his plate clean. "Fine."

"Uh huh. Okay, let's find some branches and get started settin' fire to the barn."

His spoon clatters to the table. " _What_?"

"That's the plan now, like Sam said. Burn everything down so there's nothin' to steal." Faraday keeps a straight face for another second before breaking into laughter. "You didn't hear a word he said, did you?"

"I... maybe not."

The crinkles at the corners of Faraday's eyes smooth out as his easygoing grin fades. "We're swapping with Sam and Alonso for the day so you can head out as soon as Red and Jack come back. The sooner you get to Doc Ranch, the sooner you can get to searchin' the place, since there ain't much time."

It's a wonder that Alonso agreed to let Faraday work so close to the main house. They cross paths with Mrs Newsom half a dozen times while they haul water for the horses. Faraday grins at her each time and she scowls back. Faraday declares it progress once she's stomped out of earshot. Vasquez is inclined to agree after a week of watching her treat her brother like a ghost. 

When they pause to flex their sore fingers and get their breath back, Faraday shares stories of the cutters he'd trained in his time at the ranch. Vasquez listens, but his mind keeps drifting to Faraday confessing he'd wanted to be a cowhand and imagining what it would've been like to be partnered with him through the long days and longer nights of a drive.

Partway through a tale about a horse named Nutcruncher, the pounding cadence of cantering hoofbeats draws their attention. They exchange a wordless glance before circling around the barn, meeting up with Goodnight and Billy emerging from the stables. Mrs Newsom joins them a moment later, hands clenched into fists until the riders are near enough that Red and Horne's silhouettes are obvious against the cloud of dust kicked up in their wake. 

Goodnight sets the end of his pitchfork on the ground and cocks his hip. "What is good news in this particular situation?"

"Hell if I know," Mrs Newsom replies.

Good or bad, they do bring news. They bring Sam, too, riding double with Red and looking like it's a decision he regrets.

Once everyone has their feet on the ground, Horne tells Mrs Newsom, "We found four sets of tracks going from your sawed fence to a spring a few miles west." Red nods once. "It was too busy 'round the spring to do more than guess where they went from there."

Mrs Newsom's mouth is a grim line. "That spring's the halfway mark between my property and Rattigan's. Son of a bitch." 

Glancing around, Vasquez says, "Sounds like I should go, yes?"

"It does sound that way," she concedes, though she doesn't seem any happier about it than when he'd first proposed the idea. "Thought you said you wouldn't work for a man like him."

"I am only going to pretend to work for him. I never said I would not do that."

It gets a half-smile out of her that Faraday immediately ruins by announcing, "I still don't like it."

"Ain't a creature between Heaven and Earth that don't know that," Horne murmurs.

Anger banked with the knowledge that Faraday is worried _for_ him and not _about_ him, Vasquez grins. "It will either be dangerous, or it won't," he repeats and watches Faraday's neck flush a deep red under the knot of his bandana with blossoming hope.

"Should I get the skillet, or are you two going to behave?" Sam asks. Knowing Sam, it's a serious offer. "Vasquez is our best bet. Rattigan already offered him a job—one that he actually knows how to do, mind—and the rest of us are too old to pass as wandering cowhands."

Faraday crosses his arms and scoffs in the direction of his boots. "Speak for yourself, old timer."

Placidly, Sam says, "We need Red out there scouting."

"Are you callin' me _old_?"

"I hate to be the one to break it to you," Goodnight says with blatant insincerity, "but you're too old to die young now."

Faraday sputters. "I ain't—"

"You can't go, Josh, don't be stupid," Mrs Newsom interrupts. "You think Clarence won't recognize you? You saw him and his ma in town every Sunday for years."

Despite—or maybe because of—the logical points against him, Faraday digs his heels in, mule-stubborn and liable to keep arguing until the cows come home. If Vasquez is going, he needs to go, so he slowly backs away from the conversation. Most of the group sees him doing it, but Sam and Goodnight carry on calmly refuting everything that comes out of Faraday's mouth without a single tell between them. Over Faraday's shoulder, Mrs Newsom appears torn between amusement and envy. Red catches his eye and jerks his chin at the stables. Red doesn't bother with a sneaky exit, but his abrupt departure from conversations is nothing new.

Vasquez retrieves his bedroll and saddlebags from the bunkhouse and holsters his guns only to find Faraday looming in the doorway when he goes to leave.

"I have an idea," Faraday announces.

"Did it hurt?"

"Funny. You should take Jack."

Vasquez frowns. "Horne? Why?"

"Not that Jack! Wild Jack. My horse."

"Take him where? Did you hit your head? I'm leaving for Doc Ranch." Exasperated, he holds his saddlebags up for emphasis and then lets them thump onto the table. 

"I _know_ , I ain't dumb. Just listen, will ya?" Faraday exhales forcefully through his nose. He's got a white-knuckled grip on the doorframe. "Jack's a Newsom horse, bred and branded, and he's a stallion. I call that a bargaining chip, muchacho." 

Vasquez stares, certain he's misunderstood. "Güero, you cannot possibly be telling me to take your devil-horse—your devil-horse you have told me _over and over_ you will not give to me—to Doc Ranch."

"I ain't giving him to you. It's... borrowing." 

"Borrowing, eh? In that case, I will return him in ten years."

"Ha ha," Faraday intones flatly. "You're a regular riot today. It's a good idea and you know it." 

Vasquez knows no such thing. "It's almost calving season. Can your devil-horse actually do the work?"

"'Course he can," Faraday replies, disdainful. "It's been a while, but Mattie trained him up good, and he had solid cow sense to start with. He can be backup, too. You get into hot water, he'll kick some heads in."

Vasquez tries to laugh, but his lungs aren't cooperating. "He is more likely to kick _my_ head in."

"Nah, he likes you. He let you get a saddle on him and you've still got all your fingers." Faraday finally crosses the distance between them in two long strides, stopping close enough to touch. When he leans closer still Vasquez's yearling thoughts race with possibilities, but Faraday only snatches the saddlebags from the table, turns on his heel, and strides out the door.

Wrong-footed, Vasquez grabs his bedroll and hurries to catch up. 

Red is waiting at the stables with Vasquez's tack and a definite lack of surprise when he sees Faraday in the lead. Next to Red, Jacob bounces on his toes with the bridle clutched in his hands. It's the gear meant for Vasquez's horse; gear that won't be the best fit for Wild Jack.

Vasquez sighs. "Change of plans," he announces.

Faraday's grin is sharp at the corners.

Mrs Newsom, apparently in on Faraday's idea, meets them with Wild Jack on a lead rope, Red's paint horse trailing behind. She stares hard at Faraday before slapping Jack's lead into his hand. 

(For all the fuss she'd made about Faraday stealing Jack, she's kept him turned out with his traveling companions instead of reintroducing him to the remaining Newsom stock.) 

Jacob looks torn between disappointment that there's nothing he can do to help with Red's horse and utter rapture as Red points to the painted symbols and gives low-voiced explanations of their purpose. Vasquez saddles Wild Jack while Mrs Newsom and Faraday have their own low-voiced discussion that he tries not to listen to.

After tightening the last cinch, Vasquez hesitates. Tacking Jack up is one thing, riding him is another. Jack turns his head and eyeballs Vasquez, who gets the feeling the sentiment is mutual.

"Güero, I am not so sure about this."

"C'mere." Faraday passes Jack's lead back to Mrs Newsom and claps Vasquez on the shoulder, steering him past Red and Jacob toward the corner of the stables until they're out of sight. "Here."

Vasquez knows what's in Faraday's hand before his fingers uncurl from the wooden bell. "I said you keep it."

"But—"

Vasquez cups Faraday's hand in his and folds his fingers back over the bell. "No buts. I do not think it will save me if Jack does not like your idea." And he'll feel better knowing it's safe in Faraday's possession if things go south at Doc Ranch, but he keeps that to himself. 

He's not at all prepared for Faraday to grab a fistful of his vest and yank him in for a kiss that knocks their hats to the dirt and leaves him breathless. It's exactly the same as the kiss he'd gotten the night before Faraday had disappeared from Rose Creek but entirely different at the same time, both of them sober and the sun bright overhead.

It's the kind of kiss he gets when Faraday thinks they won't see each other again, Vasquez realizes when he's in the saddle. He'll just have to prove him wrong.

***

**THE SPRING**

A pebble hits Vasquez square in the chest and he jumps a little, yanking his hand away from his lips to fend off a second. Behind him, Jack snorts and stomps.

"Ow," he remembers to say, somewhat belated.

"Pay attention," Red says.

The spring between Newsom and Doc Ranches bubbles to the surface from a rocky slope, widening as it meanders into the distance where a few cows graze. There's a boulder partially covered by the roots of a gnarled tree on the Newsom side that Red has been gesturing to while saying... something about pebbles.

"Sorry." He offers the pebble he'd caught back to Red. "What do I do?"

Red drops the pebble in a waist-high hollow in the boulder sheltered by a twist of root knotted into a rough circle. "One is 'be alert.'" He drops in a second. "Two is 'all is well.'" A third. "Three is 'danger.' If there are three, we will come looking. I will check every day."

It's a simple enough code, but: "I may not be able to come every day. It will depend on what Rattigan has me doing."

Red lifts one shoulder, holding his gaze. "I'll check. Every day. No rocks, no news."

Vasquez gathers up the pebbles from the hollow and rattles them in his palm as an excuse to look away. "If things do not go well, how do I signal a raid is coming?" 

Red scoops a handful of mud and silt from the edge of the spring and mimes filling the hole. Good. No opportunity to confuse 'danger' and 'raid.'

"You will do the checking?"

Red nods.

Reassured that Faraday's hair-trigger worry won't have any authority, Vasquez tucks the pebbles in the vest pocket where the wooden bell had once resided and dusts his hands off. He approaches Jack with caution, but Jack only flicks his ears and holds perfectly steady as Vasquez mounts up, just like he had at Newsom Ranch with Faraday there. Maybe bringing him was not such a terrible idea.

"Hasta luego, amigo," Vasquez says and points Jack's nose toward Doc Ranch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts: 
>   * Dry Branch wasn't even the town they ended up in to fix Hotspur's shoe. Faraday might've been a little flustered.
>   * I was very proud of myself for that coming joke. I even made sure "coming" was used in that particular sense in 1880. ([It was.](https://io9.gizmodo.com/three-timelines-of-slang-terms-for-having-sex-from-135-1608522982)) I hope you enjoyed it, too.
>   * I adapted the pebble thing from what I'm sure was a very basic summary of Comanche smoke signals.
>   * Faraday can predict the future.
> 

> 
> I do reply to all comments, but I just wanted to say thank you again to everyone who has! I've never posted a WIP before and I didn't realize how absolutely fantastic it would be to get feedback along the way but omg, it's SO GREAT I love you guys. <3


	5. Chapter 5

**DOC RANCH**

The spring provides a natural border for Doc Ranch's herd to the east, but to the north is wire, wire, wire. It makes Vasquez's skin crawl to look at it. He's willing to bet Faraday's devil-horse that there is another fence just like it somewhere to the south, claiming land that should be open and free.

He directs Wild Jack to a worn track that runs parallel to the northern fence, distant enough that it's only an occasional glint in the corner of his eye as he scans the horizon for signs of human habitation. 

He'd managed to sound confident at Newsom Ranch when he'd dismissed the danger he is riding into, but now his palms are sweating. Putting himself in a situation where he _knows_ he will be shot at is very different from one where he _might_ be.

"It will be fine," he mutters to Jack, who cocks an ear back to listen. "I can always run."

The first building he comes to is a bunkhouse near a corral with half a dozen horses inside. They go stock-still when Vasquez approaches on Jack, ears pricked in their direction. Some of the cowhands' personal mounts, maybe, if Rattigan allows them to be kept on the ranch. It's nowhere near the number needed for a cattle ranch's herd of cowponies. He's spared the trouble of knocking when the bunkhouse door bangs open and a man with a kettle emerges.

"Hola," Vasquez calls.

The man stops short, his gaze flicking to Vasquez's gun belt. "Hola. You looking for a meal, stranger?"

"I wouldn't say no, but I am here for a job."

"A job, hm? Then I will put you to work. I am Domingo, the cook." He motions for Vasquez to dismount and thrusts the kettle at him. "Pump is that way. Amos is the foreman; he will be in for supper soon. He will know about a job."

Vasquez ties Jack to a post outside and does as he's told. There'd been a Domingo on Mrs Newsom's list of ranch hands that'd quit on her. He's young for an outfit's cook, but it could be that he's only in charge of supper duties while everyone is ranch-bound. It could also be that he's recovering from an injury—like getting shot by Mrs Newsom. Either way, making himself agreeable to the man who feeds everyone can only count in his favor. He delivers the full kettle and quickly sees to Jack, ensuring there's water nearby and untacking him.

Leaving Jack saddled would make a quick getaway easier, but it would also mark him as a man who doesn't take proper care of his horse. Any foreman worth their salt wouldn't offer work to a man like that, no matter what the ranch owner said. 

Vasquez has his guns; they will be enough if things go wrong. They always have been.

Having an unfamiliar face around for supper is nothing new to anyone in the cattle business; some men scrape out a living by traveling between outfits, passing along news and collecting a meal in return before moving on to the next. When the cowhands trickle in in ones and twos for their suppers none of them look at Vasquez with more than vague interest, especially since he is pouring the coffee for everyone. (No one likes to pour the coffee.)

Clarence Thompson is easy to pick out amidst the more seasoned men: mouse-brown hair, watery blue eyes, green as the desert after a rainstorm and gawky with it, weathering the taunts directed his way with an uncomfortable series of grimaces Vasquez thinks are meant to be smiles. He barely looks old enough to know what a woman is, let alone be married to one, which seems to be the subject of the most raucous jokes.

The foreman, Amos, arrives last. Vasquez knows because Domingo elbows him and juts his chin in the man's direction, eyebrows raised.

"Hank and Buck not coming?" Domingo asks as he adds a biscuit to Amos' plate.

"With the boss," Amos replies, clipped. "Who's this?"

"Vasquez, sir." Amos doesn't react to his name, silently accepting his cup of coffee. "I met Mr Rattigan in town maybe a week ago. He said I could find work here."

Amos grunts. "That your horse outside?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good horse." Amos waves his biscuit at a stool. "Sit. Eat. We'll see in the morning if you've got the skills to go with it. If'n you do, I'll talk to the boss." 

Vasquez sits. "Yes, sir."

***

After a cold night spent in his bedroll outside Doc Ranch's bunkhouse, Vasquez is awake and ready when Amos comes to collect him. Under the slowly brightening sky, Amos' beard is iron gray with a touch of brown and so bushy Vasquez finds himself watching for a mouse or squirrel to poke its head out from under the man's chin as he gives the other cowhands their orders. 

(Vasquez half-turns to joke about it with Faraday before he remembers he's on his own.)

Once the regular cowhands have gone, Amos eyeballs him. "You don't look like a greenhorn just weaned from your ma's teat, but I'll judge that for myself. You understand." From his tone, understanding is the only option. Vasquez nods. It is not the usual way, but neither is offering a job to a stranger in a saloon.

They ride out along the northern fence in a mirror image of the route Vasquez had taken the day before. Amos stays quiet, but Vasquez knows what to do just like he knows this is a test. 

As happy as he would be to cut every strand of barbed wire himself, Vasquez keeps one eye on the fence for breakages and the other on any cattle they come near, on the lookout for early calves and any animals that look underfed, weak, or injured. Under him, Wild Jack is alert but not tense, leading Vasquez to wonder just how much of the stallion's orneriness stems from boredom.

They dismount at the spring to water the horses. Amos' attention is directed southward, so Vasquez puts Jack's bulk between them and slips a pebble from his vest pocket into the hollow of the tree root boulder. After a moment's consideration, he drops in a second to signal _all is well_. 

Only after they successfully drive a few stray cows from the Newsom side of the spring back toward Doc Ranch does Amos deem to speak to him, mostly about the locations of the various watering holes on Rattigan's land. It is a good sign. They keep riding, eating hardtack in the saddle around midday as they follow the spring a mile or so downstream. Vasquez notes a few cows that look ready to calve before they turn westward, heading toward a lone piñon tree in the distance.

A dozen head of cattle are standing in the shade of the tree, tails swishing. The flies are not as bad as they will be later in the year, but a brief glimpse of red when one of the steers steps forward has Vasquez bringing Jack to a halt.

"Torn up flank," Vasquez tells Amos, pointing. "I do not know how early screwworms come here, but it needs doctoring."

There are many things Vasquez will never forget from his years as Reyes' cowhand, but one he wishes he could is the sight of a week-old calf, still alive and gasping, its belly half-gone from a screwworm infestation. Any halfway competent cowhand in the southern ranges carries a jar of pine tar to cover open wounds to prevent the larvae from hatching and making a meal of a living creature, and Vasquez didn't make it to point rider by being _bad_ at his job. He makes sure the jar is close to hand and readies his reata, exchanging a nod with Amos and indicating he'll get the first rope around the beast.

Anything other than a full-grown, hurt steer would've been a less potentially deadly first test of Jack's training, but all Vasquez can do now is hope and pray.

For once Faraday hadn't been exaggerating: Jack performs _beautifully_. Maybe it should not be so surprising with how mule-stubborn he is, but the eager way he pits his strength against a steer that's twice his weight is everything Vasquez could've hoped for. Amos gets a second rope on the beast without trouble and they bring it down, securing it to the piñon in short order. 

Closer up, the injury has obviously been caused by barbed wire. Vasquez's lip curls, but he rinses the wound with alcohol and slathers pine tar on it. Then there is the tricky business of _unroping_ the steer, always easier said than done between the sharp horns and flashing hooves. Getting kicked by anything older than a newborn calf is no joke, and Vasquez has seen men die gored by cattle. They are lucky this time.

"How many drives you been on, son?" Amos asks as they leave the piñon tree behind.

"Eleven. Went up to Abilene a few years, then Wichita. Same outfit. Worked my way from wrangler to point."

He catches Amos' glance from the corner of his eye. "That's a scarce kind of loyalty in our line of work." The unspoken _Why did you leave?_ hangs in the air, but a man's past is his own, not to be pried into, and Amos is the sort that respects that. "Can't start you at point, but I could use a swing rider."

"Swing is good," Vasquez says. It's a step down from point, but it's miles above riding drag and eating the entire herd's dust—dust being the cleanest thing cattle kick up. Not that it _matters_ since Vasquez won't actually be going on the drive, but an offer of swing means Amos appreciates his skills—and maybe that Doc Ranch is in desperate need of experienced cowhands.

"Mr Rattigan will want to see you first, o'course, but if'n he recalls meetin' you it'll shake out. One thing, though," Amos adds, "you'll need to wash up first. Mr Rattigan's particular about the state of a man he lets in his house."

Vasquez nods and doesn't mention Rattigan had thought him clean enough to rub elbows with in the saloon. Bathing is the least of his worries; the real danger lies in being recognized by the cowhands he hasn't met yet. There are the two who'd never come down to supper last night, and there have to be a few more living in line shacks that might be set to rotate to the bunkhouse at any time.

Whatever happens, Vasquez will have his guns.

***

Vasquez does not have his guns.

Once acceptably clean, Amos had sent him on his way to see Rattigan. He'd been greeted at the door by a hulking brute of a man who'd grunted out the name "Buck," and relieved Vasquez of his gun belt with the explanation, "Boss's rule." He's the sort of huge not often seen working the range. The bigger the man, the harder he is on his horse, and any horse Buck rides must be dog-tired within a mile. 

It's difficult to see much of anything beyond Buck's wide shoulders, so Vasquez's gaze is mostly drawn to his gun belt trapped in Buck's meaty grip as he's lead through a parlor and down a dimly lit hallway. What little he does see of Rattigan's house is nothing at all like the Newsoms'. He's never paid much mind to what he sits on besides his saddle, but he's not sure the elaborately carved legs of the gilt-edged, red velvet-cushioned chairs in the parlor would hold his weight. Most of the things in Rattigan's house look like they were ordered straight from the catalog the man's imitation-cowhand outfit had come from—like someone had seen regular furniture once and then fancied it up to the point of uselessness.

(Vasquez can admit to appreciating a little fancy stitching, but a shirt should still be a shirt at the end of the day.)

Buck stops outside a door and waves Vasquez forward with a grunt. Having an armed stranger at his back puts an immediate itch between his shoulder blades. He tugs the collar of his shirt up to cover the bruise-tender spot on his neck he'd discovered while washing and steps inside.

"Vaquero!"

"Mr Rattigan." Vasquez remembers Rattigan, of course, brown hair and mustache peppered with gray, long nose, narrow eyes, but there's another man in the corner of the room that, for a split second, he's sure he recognizes, too. The next moment Vasquez is equally sure he's never seen the man in his life, he's just got a face so unremarkable he looks like half the white men in every town Vasquez has passed through.

"Have a seat, have a seat," Rattigan says, not bothering to rise from his own. The furniture in this room's gone the opposite direction of the other parts of the house, all thick leather and polished cattle horns, everything too large by half. The desk Rattigan is seated behind is a far cry from Mrs Newsom's neatly-kept little writing desk; half a bunkhouse of cowhands could fit comfortably around it. There are papers and books strewn across the surface, most of it coated in a thin layer of dust.

Vasquez lowers himself into a leather tub of a chair, all too aware of Buck looming behind him and resentful of it because looming is what _he_ does for Sam. To top it off, the man in the corner is staring him down like he's about to draw. Vasquez is unarmed, outnumbered, and that is not enough?

(If he does not go for the belt itself, he should be able to grab one of his guns from its holster. Six shots will have to do.)

"You look familiar," the man in the corner says. His hands are at his hips. "Whaddya say your name was?"

Rattigan twists in his chair to glare. "It's Vasquez, like Amos said. He ain't here to talk to you, Hank."

Hank's eyes flick somewhere above Vasquez's head. Looking at Buck, maybe, but he says, "Sorry, boss," and subsides.

"Now then, I like to start all offers of employment with a drink." Rattigan turns and gestures impatiently over his shoulder at Hank, who frowns and sets a wine bottle on the desk with a clunk. Rattigan takes a single glass from a shelf behind him and wrinkles his nose as he delicately plucks the bottle from atop a letter to pour. Even upside down, Vasquez is sure he sees the name _Newsom_ near the edge of the paper.

"Amos tells me you're right handy with a rope," Rattigan says with a tip of his glass in Vasquez's direction. "Knew I was right about you. Your kind doesn't go for the book-learnin', but you do have a knack for animals. Kindred spirits, maybe."

Vasquez bites his tongue to keep his retort locked behind his teeth.

Rattigan leans an elbow on his desk to address Hank like Vasquez isn't there. "That's why I still can't hardly believe Domingo went and got hisself kicked by a damn horse on top of gettin' winged, but at least I don't got to pay him as much as a real cook." He shakes his head like a man earning a fair wage is a burden too great to bear and tips his glass at Vasquez again. "I'd be happy to hire you on at a monthly rate of, say, twenty dollars and found. Now, now, before you say anything—" Vasquez hasn't so much as opened his mouth since he sat down, but twenty is an insult— "there's somethin' I offer to a handful of my men, the best of the bunch, come-pren-day? Ordinarily I wouldn't offer so soon, but I've had a good feelin' about you since we met at the Lone Tree. Had us a good time, didn't we?"

There's a long pause and Vasquez realizes Rattigan actually expects a response. "Sí, sí." 

"Damn right. Now, see, I like to give 'em the opportunity to earn a little somethin' extra on the side, understand? I reckon that you're the type that recognizes a good opportunity."

"Yes, sir."

"And I'm sure you're curious as to why Buck here's got your guns. Nothin' shady, just a little precaution. We're all a-mee-goes here, ain't we, fellas?"

"Sure are," Hank says, though he's still staring at Vasquez like he'd look better with a few bullet holes. Behind him, Buck rumbles, "Real good friends." Vasquez's fingers curl around the arms of the chair, nails digging into the leather.

The grin Rattigan flashes at him is edged with gold. "Before I get to the particulars, you ought to know Amos has got a keen eye, and he couldn't help noticin' your horse has a Newsom Ranch brand—and his balls. Now that, a-mee-go, is mighty peculiar."

"Is it?" Vasquez manages. His mouth is dry. He swallows and adds, "Their business is selling horses, yes?"

"You got me there." Rattigan's tone implies the opposite. "The thing is, Mrs Newsom don't often sell a stallion, seein' as how it takes a Newsom stallion to breed a Newsom foal. In fact, I'd wager she's never _sold_ one."

Rattigan thinks Vasquez stole Wild Jack.

This is probably not what Faraday had in mind when he'd called Jack a bargaining chip.

Vasquez prays Mrs Newsom never finds out about what he is about to say, lie or not. "I needed a horse. The way you described Mrs Newsom at the saloon, I had to see such a woman for myself, you know? I thought if she was in as much trouble as you said, she might be very _grateful_ for some help." 

Rattigan catches his meaning immediately. He leans forward, nearly knocking over his wine. "Was she?"

Vasquez scoffs. "I worked for her for almost a week and all I got was getting run off with a rifle. Since she did not pay me for the work I did, I took my own payment. But I think I did her another favor: now her story about horse thieves is a little true, yes?" 

"That was sure generous of you, helpin' her out like that." Rattigan laughs, then sighs. "Here I thought I was finally gonna find out if Mad Mattie's as cold and stiff on her back as she is on her feet. Can't say as I'm not a little disappointed, but I can't fault a man for wantin' what he's owed. God's honest truth, she owes me, too." He slumps back in his chair with a frown. "Is that little whoreson she took in still running 'round the place?"

Whoreson? Jacob is the only child at Newsom Ranch, and he certainly looks like Mrs Newsom's blood relation with his round face and sharp green eyes. "I don't..."

"What was that boy's name? Joseph? Jack?" Rattigan grimaces and shakes his head. "Never mind. Don't matter. I think you'll have a special appreciation for what I'm offering, vaquero. In a coupla weeks my boys here are goin' over to Newsom Ranch to take a little more of what I'm owed, understand? You help out, and the sheriff'll never hear a word about where that horse of yours came from, and there'll be a little somethin' extra in it for you. We got a deal?" Rattigan thrusts his hand across the desk with a wide, oily smile.

The paper with _Newsom_ at the top is directly below Rattigan's hand. Vasquez can only sneaks a glance when he reaches out to shake Rattigan's hand, but he's sure it's a letter addressed to John Newsom.

"Deal."

"You and me, a-mee-go, we'll get along real well." He drains his wine and pours a second glass. "Buck, why don't you give this upstanding gentleman his guns? Fine pieces, by the way, those mother-of-pearl grips are real nice."

Vasquez jerks when Buck clips his ear with the gun belt before dropping it in his lap. He forces his grimace into a smile and says, "Gracias."

Rattigan keeps on flapping his gums for a few more minutes, but Vasquez barely hears him. His plan had always had two simple steps: one, find out if Rattigan or Clarence Thompson have been stealing Mrs Newsom's horses, two, shoot whichever of them is responsible and trust Sam to find a way to recover the livestock. The only thing he'd truthfully intended to find at Doc Ranch had been a chance to put a bullet between someone's eyes, no matter what he'd implied before he left. Granted, now he's looking at killing three men—Hank and Buck are clearly in on the whole plan and a greater immediate threat than Rattigan—but he could do it, right here, right now.

He could do it and run, maybe make it halfway to the spring before anyone discovers the bodies. 

His bounty would go up. Too many of Rattigan's men have seen his face to avoid it, and three counts of murder would be a hefty increase. A larger bounty would mean a new pack of hunters after him and the more-than-five-hundred-dollars on his head. Sam and the others wouldn't be able to protect him from that; he wouldn't let them try. He would run and run and run, and, eventually, someone would catch up.

He could not do it and wait. 

Wait to get Rattigan alone, maybe. Without him to bankroll the raids and persuade the law to look the other way, what reason would Hank or Buck have to continue? Or he could wait to get a look at that letter addressed to John Newsom on Rattigan's desk. The expression on Faraday's face alone if Vasquez manages to return with the exact sort of proof they can take to the sheriff might be worth it.

The choice would be easier if Faraday—if Faraday hadn't done what he had.

Rattigan says, "I'll be sure to have Amos keep you close by," and it takes Vasquez a second to realize it's a dismissal. He hastily stands and shakes the man's hand again, holding tight to his gun belt. He buckles it back around his hips, hands lingering over the grips of his guns. He stares at the plush rug under his feet and makes a decision.

***

Working on a cattle ranch in the company of strangers feels like trying to put on the first shirt he'd bought with his wrangler wages more than a decade ago. It is familiar, but the sleeves are short, the collar is tight, the buttons difficult to fasten. Not impossible to wear, but it does not fit right.

When he'd come back from talking with Rattigan, Amos had given him a long look, knowing and resigned all at once, and told him he'd be Clarence's partner in the morning. The assignment had elicited more than a few snickers around the bunkhouse, but Vasquez is in no way prepared for how _hopeless_ Clarence is.

"Sorry, Mr Vasquez," the kid says for the third time since they'd saddled up an hour ago.

Vasquez sighs, dismounts, and untangles Clarence's lasso from the bush he'd roped in his enthusiasm to show off what Amos had been teaching him. Jack eyeballs him when he goes to mount again, obviously unimpressed with the turn the separation from his master has taken.

They'd been given the line that went to the spring and back, which Vasquez suspects is the easiest and shortest ride on the ranch, but Clarence's general incompetence makes everything take twice as long as it should.

"Oh, I'm gonna be wranglin' the horses on the drive, but Mr Amos wanted me to learn about the cows, too," Clarence had told him when they'd set out. "They're, uh, they're awful big. And the horns, gosh, I'm mighty glad horses don't have horns."

Vasquez is rethinking his decision to get a look at the letter on Rattigan's desk.

By some miracle, they make it to the spring without any more apologies. Vasquez sends Clarence a ways downstream to ensure there is nothing there that should not be—surely he can spot any dead animals fouling the water—and crosses to the tree root boulder with Jack in position to block any curious glances.

There's something already in the hole.

Vasquez frowns and pulls it out, scraping his fingers over the bottom of the hollow to make sure yesterday's two pebbles are gone before examining the object.

It's... a fish.

Vasquez holds the wooden thing at eye level, baffled. It's half as long as a cigar, whittled smooth except for a few deeper grooves to indicate eyes and fins. It puts him in mind of the wooden bell from Anthony, but this is obviously the work of an adult. Not Red, surely, though he must've been the one to deliver it. Horne? He'd spent a few evenings by the cookstove whittling animals for Jacob from salvageable pieces of broken fence, and he'd made a train car for Goodnight when he'd asked, but why...?

His thumb hits another set of grooves on the fish's curved belly, so he rotates the little thing until he can make out the letters _J F_ carved into the wood.

The back of his neck feels hot and his mouth is still hanging open when Clarence calls, "Mr Vasquez?"

He hastily swaps the wooden fish for two pebbles in his vest pocket, dropping them in and taking a deep breath before striding around Jack to find Clarence much closer than he'd expected. "What?"

"There's, uh, there's—I swear I saw somethin' up the hill there."

Vasquez peers up the slope through the branches of the gnarled tree, but there's nothing but rocks and dirt. Jack hasn't so much as lifted a hoof, so either Clarence is imagining things or Red is near enough that they need to move on before Clarence really does see something.

They make it through the rest of their line with only one more troublesome incident—Vasquez honestly doesn't know how the kid got one of his ropes wrapped around his ankle and under his saddle—but the evening offers little reprieve. A cattle ranch at this time of year should have instruments being played, questionable singing, tall tales with hardly a drop of truth to them being told, boasts even more outrageous than the tales, but at Doc Ranch there's a few jabs at Clarence for being young and married and they go to sleep. Vasquez lays on his bunk and stares at the ceiling, trying to come up with a plausible reason to visit the main house again, turning the wooden fish over and over as he rubs his fingertips across the _J F_ on its curved belly.

The next few days are more of the same. The wooden fish stays in his vest pocket alongside the pebbles he collects by the corral he uses for Jack. There's never anything else waiting for him at the boulder, so he drops his two pebbles in and moves on. He finds out from idle talk that most of Doc Ranch's horses are pastured somewhere west of Rattigan's house but can't find a reason to go there himself. He doctors several newborn calves to prevent screwworm infection; Clarence fumbles his bottle of pine tar and his horse steps on it. 

Hank and Buck don't seem to take part in the daily operation of the ranch, though they do show up most days for supper at the bunkhouse. They certainly don't take orders from Amos, who ignores them entirely. Hank in particular spends his time around the bunkhouse staring at Vasquez, which winds him tighter than a rope around a calf's heels the longer it goes on.

On Sunday, Clarence rides into town to attend church with his wife. Buck goes with him. Buck does not strike Vasquez as the church-going type, but Clarence doesn't strike him as the horse-stealing type, either. Alonso had seemed sure he'd had something to do with it; Mrs Newsom had seemed equally sure he hadn't. From what Vasquez has seen, Clarence doesn't have a law-breaking bone in his body. Hell, he's far more likely to break an _actual_ bone.

He is running out of time.

The rhythmic thump of Jack's hooves on the well-worn track is like a ticking clock; he is wasting time checking Rattigan's devil's wire fences, wasting time taking care of Rattigan's cattle.

(He would happily drink an entire pot of Horne's coffee if it meant he was back at Newsom Ranch listening to Goodnight spin stories out of whole cloth with Sam poking holes in his narration just to see what Goodnight will come up with to cover them. He'd drink a second pot to keep company with Red and Billy again, to feel Faraday's elbow in his side before he whispers a bawdy comment in his ear. Holding himself alert at all times is exhausting; he misses the men he trusts.)

"Mr Vasquez? Looks like a few new calves over there."

"Just Vasquez, Clarence," Vasquez reminds him for the second time that day. He doesn't sigh, but he wants to. "You take the youngest. Pull it up to you, like I showed you."

The kid _tries_ , he really does, but everything that can go wrong does in the blink of an eye.

Vasquez swears as he spurs Jack forward to get between Clarence, laid out flat on his back where his horse had bucked him off, and a very, very angry mother cow. The calf is bleating, Clarence's rope trailing from its goddamn tail—how? _how_?—and Vasquez doesn't want to die but he dismounts anyway, hoping like hell Jack will keep the mother at bay.

He darts over to Clarence and yanks him to his feet, pulling him farther from Jack and the cow. He looks all right, no blood, just stunned from the impact and stupid with it. All too aware of the hooves tearing divots in the grass nearby, Vasquez gives him a good shake before lunging for the reins of his horse. "Get up, get on your horse! Ride toward the spring!"

Shakily, too slow, Clarence struggles to do as he's told. Vasquez half-shoves him into the saddle. "Ándale!"

With Clarence finally out of the way, Vasquez can focus on saving his own skin. He whistles, short and sharp like he's heard Faraday do, and Jack spins faster than a creature so large should be able to and runs at him, slowing down just enough to let Vasquez catch hold of the saddle and haul himself on. 

Her calf safe, the cow doesn't chase them long.

Vasquez blows out a breath, looking over his shoulder before patting Jack's neck. "I take it back, you are not a devil-horse. You are the best horse. Do not tell Faraday I said so."

Jack flicks his ears and trots after Clarence.

When they catch up, Clarence's chin is tucked into his chest, his whole body trembling. "Thank you," he says, soft and unsteady.

"I would not want your wife to become a widow so soon after the wedding," Vasquez replies. He is not nearly as mad as he should be, but it's difficult to get angry at someone so uniquely unsuited to the work. Clarence will have to go back for his rope, but they'll give the cows some time to move off first. "Drink. You will feel better."

Clarence fumbles for his canteen. "Y-you know I got a wife?"

"I can hear fine."

"Oh. Right. I just—y'never said anything like the others." After a few attempts he manages to uncap his canteen and drink, water dripping onto his saddle. "They all act like it's the dumbest thing I coulda done."

Since Vasquez has just witnessed Clarence do a series of very dumb things, he disagrees. "If you ask me, they are jealous. What do any of them have? A woman at the cathouse who only has the time if they have the money?"

Clarence lowers the canteen and caps it, a little steadier. "I never thought of it like that. My Mabel, she is the prettiest thing you ever did see and sweeter than a peach."

"I am sure she is," Vasquez says, gentle in the face of Clarence's painful sincerity. 

"You got a sweetheart?"

Faraday comes to mind with embarrassing speed. (He does not think about Faraday, except for all the times he does.) "I—" he breaks off, huffs out a laugh. "I do not know. I am mostly sure I don't, except for when I think I might."

Clarence's chest puffs out with all the wisdom of a teenager who's been married for two weeks. "She playin' coy? Mabel was like that at first, but it was 'cause her daddy didn't like me much."

 _Faraday_ , coy. Vasquez bites down hard on his tongue to keep from laughing. His "Oh?" is admirably even.

"He changed his mind when Mr Rattigan let me, uh, buy into the ranch. I've got three hundred acres to my name now, and Mr Rattigan said he'd even consider lettin' me own some cattle if I keep on—well, you know."

Vasquez does not know. Keep on surviving his own stupidity? That seems far too generous for Rattigan. "I know what?"

Clarence lowers his voice like he doesn't want the cows to overhear. "It's all right. Mr Coyote Hank told me you're comin' with us."

Vasquez gapes. There's no way—except there is, what else could he possibly mean? Clarence _is_ involved—Clarence, who surprises Vasquez each morning he makes it into the saddle without incident; Clarence, who gave his biscuit to Domingo when the last batch overbaked into charcoal; Clarence, who is barely old enough to shave.

"Uh, Mr Vasquez?"

Vasquez swears in Spanish, and Clarence's eyes get wide enough he must understand at least some of it. He finishes with, "I didn't know. You—what did you call Hank?"

"Mr... Mr Coyote Hank?" Clarence's throat bobs. He says something else, something about how the horses know him, but Vasquez doesn't really hear it, too busy realizing he should've killed the three men in Rattigan's house when he'd had the chance.

That fleeting moment of recognition in Rattigan's study hadn't been a fluke. On the way to Fancy Gap, he and Red had crossed paths with a bounty hunter carrying around Hank's picture on a wanted poster. _Coyote Hank_. The drawing hadn't looked like much, but then neither did Hank, a man wanted in three states for robbery and murder. 

Mierda.

In a carefully measured tone, Vasquez asks, "Why are you involved with Coyote Hank?"

"I jus'—I jus' said. The horses know me, I keep 'em calm. Domingo did, too, but last time he got, uh, a little bit shot and kicked pretty bad. It—it weren't by one of the ones we was tryin' to... to bring back. It was awful nice of Mr Rattigan to keep him on as a cook, wasn't it? We been friends a long time, me an' Domingo, so—"

"Clarence." Everything about him—his hunched shoulders, his lowered head, the way he's curled in on himself like he's eaten a bad tin of beans—says that he knows what he's done is wrong, no matter what sugar-coating Rattigan has put on the situation. There's something a lot like sympathy pooling in Vasquez's chest; he knows all too well how one bad decision can lead to another until it feels like the only choice is to keep going and hope you live to tell the tale. "Does your wife know what you've been doing?"

"No," Clarence gasps out, horrified. "I _never_ —she wouldn't—"

"All right," Vasquez says. He nods in the direction they'd come from. "Come on. You need your lasso."

Clarence's mouth clicks shut. He's got his arms wrapped around his middle now, as miserable as anything. Vasquez does not look back at him as they ride. There is no point. Clarence is involved, but he's not a threat to anyone but himself. Hank is the bigger problem, now that Vasquez knows who he is and what he's done. Vasquez's backup plan of killing only Rattigan is out; Hank strikes him as the kind of man who wouldn't hesitate to hunt down anyone who crossed him. And his wanted poster had said dead or alive, just like Vasquez's, so Sam could turn the man in for the bounty. As for Buck, Vasquez is willing to bet there's a poster out there with his name on it, too.

He should've killed all three of them when he'd had the chance.

"You've done it, too," Clarence blurts out. Vasquez twists in his saddle to look at him; he's still hunched over and his horse looks like it's considering bucking again.

"Done what?"

"That horse you're ridin'—he's one of Queenie's get, he's gotta be. And he's a stallion. Mrs Newsom don't sell no stallions."

Vasquez grits his teeth. "You and I, we are different. I am not responsible for anyone but myself. You have your wife, your family to think about."

"Only reason I've _got_ Mabel is 'cause of Mr Rattigan," Clarence shoots back, heated. The other cowhands get the run on him on a nightly basis, but Vasquez has never heard him sound like this. "The first time I asked Mabel to marry me, she said no. Whole town knew about it the next day, o'course. Domingo took me to the Lone Tree to cheer me up. We worked at Newsom Ranch then, so we was drinking, talking 'bout the horses, anything but Mabel, you know? Mr Rattigan heard us and came over to give me some advice, all friendly-like, 'cause he knows Mabel's daddy. He said... he said Mr Jenkins didn't think too kindly of Mrs Newsom and I'd have a better chance if I came to work for him. Offered me a job right there. As his wrangler, I mean. The... other thing came later."

Of course Rattigan had. He'd seen an easy target and taken a shot. It wouldn't do any good to say so, so they ride in silence until they reach the area of Clarence's botched calf-roping. Vasquez has to whistle and point at the lasso tangled in the sagebrush before Clarence remembers what he's meant to be doing and hops down.

"What about your sweetheart?" Clarence asks as he yanks on the rope. He's going to ruin the braid of it if he keeps pulling like that, but Vasquez is too wrung-out to dispense cowhand lessons. "You don't care 'bout what happens to her if _you_ get caught?"

The only thing that will happen if Vasquez gets caught—not the way Clarence is thinking, but he could sure as hell still get _caught_ —is that Faraday will be madder than a wet hen that he can't say _I told you so_ because Vasquez will be dead. 

Vasquez does not answer. Clarence goes on creating snags in the rawhide that'll need fixing before the rope is usable again.

Once it's free of the vegetation, Clarence starts coiling the rope, frowning whenever he gets to a crimp. He's nearly finished when he says, "I'm sorry if it's a sore spot, Mr Vasquez. I just... I know it ain't as right as Mr Rattigan says it is with the Newsoms owin' him, but I'm doing it for Mabel. Thought you might be the same."

Stealing horses for love; Goodnight will be thrilled.

"You are not wrong," Vasquez admits because he is a fool. It's true Rose Creek had given him a taste for doing good in the world, but of all the jobs that'd come after, this is the only one he'd volunteered to walk into a hornet's nest for. For Faraday's family.

He can practically hear Faraday calling him an idiot when he drops a single pebble into the tree root boulder's shallow hollow. _Be alert_.

***

For all that Clarence's slip has complicated things, it gives Vasquez a good reason to seek out Rattigan. Anyone planning to steal a small herd of horses would have concerns about bringing along a walking disaster like Clarence.

What he needs is a way around Amos.

Cowhands don't take their troubles to the ranch owner when there's a foreman or trail boss around, but most ranch owners aren't in the business of employing horse thieves. Vasquez is sure Amos has no hand in the thievery itself with how he ignores Hank and Buck, but he is equally sure Amos knows exactly what Rattigan is doing and has elected to keep his mouth shut instead of turning the man in. Amos isn't stupid; the stolen horses have to be somewhere on ranch property, and quality horses don't just roll out of the desert like tumbleweeds.

Vasquez plans his request carefully. One of the muttered complaints that goes around the bunkhouse every night is that Rattigan eats his supper alone or in town, no exceptions, and it inevitably descends into envious speculation on what delicacies their boss must be dining on as they shovel beans into their mouths. With any luck, if Vasquez shows up at Rattigan's house around suppertime he'll be left to cool his heels on his lonesome while Rattigan eats, giving him the chance to sneak a look at the letter he'd glimpsed in Rattigan's study. With no luck, he'll... think of something.

He catches Amos outside the bunkhouse as the shadows stretch eastward under the setting sun. He sticks with a simple, "I need to talk to Mr Rattigan about a horse," and hardly gets the last word out before Amos scowls and jerks a thumb in the house's direction without a word.

Wild Jack picks up on Vasquez's agitation before he makes it into the saddle, pawing the ground and swiveling his ears in search of danger. Vasquez blows out a breath and rolls his shoulders a few times in a pitiful attempt to loosen the tension coiling tight around his ribs. Jack lets him mount, but it's not a pleasant ride.

Everything would be so much simpler if he'd shot the three of them and run.

A short woman with white hair and a fraying apron answers the door. Rattigan's housekeeper, if Vasquez had to guess, but she doesn't identify herself. She takes him to an actual dining room where Rattigan is seated at the head of an otherwise empty table. It's even larger than the desk in the study and surrounded by more of the spindly-legged red velvet chairs, topped with a half-finished meal, a wine bottle, and a strange sculpture comprised of cattle horns that makes Vasquez uneasy when he looks at it.

"Vaquero." Rattigan makes no effort to disguise his irritation. "Marta, you know I don't see anyone when I'm eating."

Marta nods several times, the movement jerky and hesitant, but she says nothing. Rattigan scowls and jabs his fork at the door. She bobs a wobbly curtsy and retreats.

"Damn forgetful old bitch," Rattigan complains at full volume. "Whatever you need can wait 'til I'm done. You smell all sorts of awful." He gestures with his fork again. "Get outta here before you put me off my supper. Amos shoulda known better."

"Yes, sir."

Rattigan speaks again before Vasquez can get more than one foot out of the room, his lips curled into a smirk. "I'd say you could read a book while you wait, but you can't, can ya?"

"No, sir," Vasquez lies.

Rattigan scoffs. "Go on, get."

Getting his fists to unclench is more difficult than finding his way back to the study. He sees no one. The letter is in the exact same place it'd been a week ago. Praying this hasn't all been for nothing, he slides it out from the dusty clutter. He is not a fast reader, especially of English, but there are several paragraphs of angular script addressed to John Newsom, just like he'd thought. He can't risk Rattigan seeing him with it, so he tucks it away in his vest pocket, next to the wooden fish.

He hopes like hell Rattigan won't notice its absence.

The rest of the scattered books and papers have no obvious markers of worth, so he moves on to the shelves, scanning gilt titles on leather-bound spines. He's just discovered what might be Doc Ranch's ledgers when Rattigan strides in and stops short. Vasquez straightens up and breathes.

"Hell, vaquero, I was jokin' about the reading." Rattigan's laugh is a bray of genuine amusement at the notion of Vasquez being able to read. Vasquez thinks of patient hours with Mrs Reyes and grinds his teeth, hoping the heat in his face will be mistaken for embarrassment instead of the anger it truly is.

"These letters," Vasquez taps the spine of the nearest book. "Are they real gold?"

It's the right thing to say; Rattigan understands envy and greed.

"Sure are. That why you're here, to admire my house? Can't say as I blame you, I reckon it's the finest you've seen, let alone been inside." Rattigan waves Vasquez out from behind the desk, then snaps his fingers and points at one of the leather tub chairs opposite. The letter hidden in his vest is the only thing that stops Vasquez from punching the man. He sits.

Rattigan pours himself a drink and sits, too, propping his boots up on a clutter-free corner of the desk. "Well? Did lookin' at books make you forget how to talk?"

"No, sir." He could shoot Rattigan right now. It would be easy; there is no one here to stop him. "I found out Clarence is—taking part in the opportunity you offered me. I have worked with the boy for a week now, and I do not think that is a good idea."

There's no trace of friendliness when Rattigan says, "Ain't your place to tell me what is and isn't a good idea, a-mee-go. Your place is doin' what I tell you with who I tell you to do it with, and I am telling you Clarence is going. Understood?"

"But—"

In a split second Rattigan's boots hit the floor and he has his hands braced on the desk, leaning over it with his teeth bared. "Understood?" he barks.

Vasquez ducks his head in feigned deference, like his hands hadn't flashed to his pistol grips. "Yes, sir."

"Good." Rattigan sits back down, his bared teeth tilting into a gold-edged smile like the last few seconds never happened. "I know the kid can't rope a goddamn fence post, but you'll need him. The Newsom horses know him. They stay calm for him. Without the other one," like he can't be bothered to remember Domingo's name, "he's what you've got. Hank and Buck know how to keep him in line."

"He does not seem the bandido type," Vasquez murmurs, toeing the line between insubordination and concern, but Rattigan seems content to believe Vasquez cowed. 

"He ain't, but he got a real sweet deal with that little wife of his. He knows what'll happen if he doesn't follow through."

There are not many ways to interpret that; none of them are good. The way Rattigan swings between threatening and jovial at the drop of a hat—he'd done it at the saloon, too—

"Besides, I've got you for a ban-did-o. A real desperado, Hank told me."

Vasquez's gaze flies to Rattigan's face with thrumming alarm that only blares louder when Rattigan's grin widens. "Hank was sure he'd seen you before. He's got a certain interest in wanted posters, see, and he finally recalled he'd seen your mean mug on one of 'em. Dead or alive."

 _Dead to rights,_ Faraday had warned him.

The grin shifts to outright laughter. "Opportunity still stands, a-mee-go. Five hundred may look mighty nice to some men, but I reckon you're worth more alive. You help me out, that poster stays our little secret. Now, you got a few days yet to toughen up young Clarence. Best get to it."

Heart pounding, Vasquez flees.

***

By the time Wild Jack is settled for the night, the cold sweat that'd broken out when Rattigan had baldly announced his bounty has dried tacky on his skin. Five hundred dollars may not tempt Rattigan, but Vasquez is willing to bet Hank and Buck suffer no such sentiment.

If there is nothing in the letter—if this has all been for nothing—

He wants to go home.

 _Home_ had meant Reyes' ranch for so many years, but now his heart tugs him in a new direction, toward Sam and the others. Toward Faraday, if he stays.

He doesn't want to leave another home behind.

Doc Ranch's bunkhouse feels even more alien when he steps inside. The other cowhands are in their bunks, sleeping or as near as, the hush broken only by the crackling of the cookstove, still burning against the chill of night. If he hunkers close, there will be light enough to read.

He reaches to drag a stool closer and pauses. The table, being communal space, is usually clear when not in use, but tonight there's a small bundle in the center with a scrap of paper tucked underneath. Curious, he slides the paper out and tilts it toward the stove. _Vasquez_ , it reads. He hesitates, wary, then uses a cigar to flip aside a corner of the bandana wrapped around the bundle like there might be a rattlesnake inside.

The rattlesnake is two biscuits with a bit of bacon tucked between them.

Vasquez had missed supper, and Clarence—the kid has gone starry-eyed over the _C T_ embroidered by his new wife at the edge of the bandana too often for Vasquez not to recognize it—had saved him something to eat. Of course he had.

With a rasher of bacon crammed in his mouth, Vasquez unfolds the letter.

It's been some time since he's read more than a warrant poster in English, and Rattigan's spiky writing is a far cry from the block-printed DEAD OR ALIVE. He scans the first paragraph of pleasantries and inquiries about John Newsom's health in the flickering light, but there's nothing useful. He swallows around the cold lump building in his throat and reads on.

> _Our families have been friends since our fathers made their fortunes and left Silverton behind to found our town of Fancy Gap, and it is my greatest hope that that friendship will see us through what I feel I must tell you._
> 
> _I am sure your decision to leave Newsom Ranch in your wife's hands when you traveled eastward—indeed, despite my offer to look after it for you—was borne of your fondness for her and your good-hearted belief that she was up to the task, both commendable sentiments. I expect she has been keeping you up to date on the ranch's business, but I fear she has not reported the truth or you would have taken some action by now. It pains me greatly to be so blunt, but Newsom Ranch is failing. I do not think a single animal has been sold in these past six months. Certainly Mrs Newsom has refused any sale to me, no reason given._

No reason excepting Rattigan breaking his end of the agreement between the two families and still expecting Mrs Newsom to uphold hers, of course.

> _I had a few of my men look into the matter and have been informed the ranch's stock has dwindled considerably, through disease or predation or another reason I do not know. I offered Mrs Newsom studding services from some of my own stallions on account of our longstanding friendship, but she has declined. She is a very proud woman, as I am sure you are aware. If she has concealed the dire state of the ranch from you, please do not blame her. I am sure she thought only of what was best for you and your health._
> 
> _Out of concern for your wife and the boy you took in out of the goodness of your heart, I can no longer let the situation go on in good conscience. I have written to offer you a sum of $2,000 for Newsom Ranch and the promise that I will do everything in my power to ensure your family remains comfortable while you are recuperating._
> 
> _Yours in Friendship,  
>  Daniel S. Rattigan III_

The most expensive thing Vasquez has ever bought is a horse, but he is still sure that $2,000 for the entirety of Newsom Ranch is an insult so dire Mrs Newsom would sooner burn everything to the ground than accept it, especially from the likes of Rattigan. The miles of wooden fences alone must be worth that much. He reaches absently for one of the biscuits as he reads through the lies and half-truths again. The part where Rattigan covers his own thefts with excuses of disease and predation and slathers concern on like butter is so brazenly underhanded Vasquez almost respects the sheer arrogance of it. 

At face value, the letter _sounds_ reasonable, which makes it dangerous.

Why hasn't Rattigan sent it?

Maybe he thinks John Newsom won't believe it. Maybe he is waiting until Newsom Ranch really does fail. The letter is no iron-clad confession, but it _is_ signed, and it makes Rattigan's desire to own Newsom Ranch clear. Maybe, combined with the sawed fence, Mrs Newsom's history of complaints to the sheriff, and Rattigan harboring an outlaw wanted for robbery and murder, it will be enough. Maybe, maybe, maybe. All Vasquez has is a sliver of moonlight and maybes.

***

Despite being a single sheet of paper, Vasquez feels the weight of the letter tucked into his vest as he rides out with Clarence the next day like it's made of stone. It hadn't felt safe to leave it anywhere in the bunkhouse, especially now that he knows that behind Hank's dead-eyed stare is the knowledge that Vasquez is an outlaw, too.

Clarence is chattering about something, but Vasquez's thoughts are miles away. The more he thinks on it, the surer he becomes that the raid should happen. Shooting Hank and Buck in the act would make it more difficult for the sheriff to sweep under the rug, another scrap of evidence to stack the maybes in Mrs Newsom's favor.

"Mr Vasquez?"

"Hm?" Vasquez blinks until the barbed wire fence he's been staring at comes back into focus, grateful Jack needs little direction to get on with his job. (He is starting to understand Faraday's constant need to proclaim that Jack is his. Jack is a good horse.)

"Are... are you all right? Only—I saw you last night," Clarence continues in a rush, "with a letter. Was it from your sweetheart?" Vasquez can only imagine the alarm that must cross his face to make Clarence hurriedly assure, "Don't worry, I won't tell no one."

As patently ridiculous as the idea of a love letter from Faraday is, it's convenient to lie, "Yes." Anyone who spends most of their life in a saddle carries around a letter or two, though he might be the first to do it to prove horse thievery.

"Have you told her—"

"No." It's a question better left unfinished. He yanks his hand away from the wooden fish in his pocket and urges Jack faster to make conversation impossible, keeping up the pace until the spring blessedly comes into view.

There are more cows near where the spring bubbles up than Vasquez has seen in the last week, though they still shy away when he and Clarence approach. A ways downstream, the shimmer of the water seems too wide for the lack of rainfall. He sends Clarence on ahead, claiming his gear needs adjusting so he has reason to trail behind.

As he rummages in his saddlebag, something hits him in the chest and bounces into Jack's mane, catching in the coarse hair before sliding harmlessly to the ground.

A pebble.

Heart beating a little faster, he directs Jack across the spring and up the rocky slope, putting his faith in his mount's surefootedness. They stop next to the boulder and Vasquez peers up into the dappled light and gnarled branches. It takes him some time to pick out a patch of black near the trunk too dark to be a midday shadow and the gleam of eyes below, but he grins when he succeeds. "Red."

"Vasquez." A smile flickers through the leaves. Vasquez is so happy to see someone he trusts that the only thing stopping him from scaling the tree to hug Red is Clarence, who isn't far enough away yet to justify the risk.

"What are you doing here, amigo?" His heart lurches into his throat. "The ranch—is everyone all right?"

Red snorts. "Everything is fine. Faraday overheard me tell Sam about your signal."

One pebble: be alert. "You are checking up on me?" Vasquez grins again. He is not alone, not really. It is good to be reminded. 

There's movement that might be the wind or a shrug. "It was check or let Faraday come. With explosives."

"Does Mrs Newsom have—no, never mind. I do not want to know." 

"What changed?" Red throws another pebble; Vasquez catches it in a cupped palm against his chest.

It's a relief to tell someone, never mind that he has only known for a day. "Do you remember the bounty hunter we met before we got to Fancy Gap? He was looking for an outlaw wanted for robbery and murder calling himself Coyote Hank."

"Boone," Red supplies. "I remember." 

"Well, I found Coyote Hank."

With hardly a sound, Red drops out of the tree. Jack goes tense under the saddle for a split second before relaxing again. Red's face is painted differently than anything Vasquez has seen before, a pattern of black and red and green. "Not him," Red says, pointing after Clarence's dwindling figure.

Vasquez barks out a laugh. "No, that's Clarence. He is only a danger to himself and anyone unlucky enough to ride with him. But Alonso was right, he helped raid Newsom Ranch."

"How many others?" 

"Three. There is Coyote Hank and a man named Buck who might be an outlaw, too. Sam will know." He briefly describes Buck so Red can pass the information along, then continues, "And one of the other ranch hands who quit Newsom Ranch, Domingo. He was hurt in the last raid. Rattigan is having me take his place—everything is on his say-so, but I do not think he goes himself." Vasquez pushes his hat back and scrubs a hand over his eyes. "He must have offered Hank and Buck protection from the law. Or money. Maybe both. He gave Clarence land so he could marry and then threatened his wife to keep him in line. I do not know about Domingo."

Red nods, his eyes serious. "And you?"

"Money. And—" He grimaces, but this is Red. "He knows I am an outlaw, too. Hank told him. He also thinks I stole Faraday's horse." He pats Jack's neck, but he cannot avoid looking at Red forever.

When he risks a glance up, Red's lips are a thin line and his arms are crossed. Possibly he has raised his eyebrows, but it is difficult to tell with the paint. What is easy to tell is that Red is reconsidering letting Faraday come with explosives.

"I know it is not good, but I cannot do anything about it," Vasquez mutters.

"Get rid of Rattigan and Hank," Red offers without hesitation. "Buck, too, if he knows. I'll do it. Arrows. No blame on you."

Mierda, it's tempting, but— "If we let them try to raid Newsom Ranch again, we might have enough proof to get Mrs Newsom's horses back fair and square. That is the job we came to do, yes?"

Red's expression flattens further.

Vasquez pulls the letter out of his vest. Better to have it out of Rattigan's reach. "Rattigan wrote to John Newsom, claiming Newsom Ranch is failing. It is no confession, but it is proof he wants to buy the ranch for much less than it is worth." Red's nose wrinkles like Vasquez has offered him a plateful of beans, but he plucks it from Vasquez's fingers and tucks it away. "Take it to Sam. With that and the sawed fence, I think if we take care of Hank and Buck during the raid it will be enough."

"Not Clarence?"

Vasquez shakes his head. "He is a kid. A stupid one, but he should not die for it."

"When?"

"I do not know. Soon."

Red nods, raising his hand to clasp Vasquez's, grip strong and steady. "Use the signal. We will be ready."

"Maybe do not let Faraday hear that..."

"He was right?" Red finishes. Vasquez shrugs and turns to look at Clarence's distant figure. "I won't. Horne has better things to do than sit on him."

Imagining Faraday riding to his rescue is not as hard as it should be.

By the time Vasquez turns back, Red's hands are wrapped around a low branch, his booted feet halfway up the trunk. It takes only seconds for him to disappear completely into the rustling leaves. "He'll need help."

"Who? Clarence?" Clarence needs help with damn near everything, but he's got a bad feeling that's not what Red means. "Help with what?"

"The rocks. You'll see."

An hour later, Vasquez is out of breath and wetter than he can ever remember being despite having ridden through thunderstorms and forded rivers. His fingers are sore and cold. Clarence is covered in mud and trying to hide his shaking. He doesn't know if Red can see them, but he makes a rude gesture upstream anyway.

"I don't understand how this happened," Clarence grumbles as he attempts to roll the last rock up the sodden bank. It slips and splashes back into the stream, spraying them both. Vasquez sighs and blinks water from his eyes. He doesn't understand how Red had managed to dam the spring either, but it would have been a good distraction if he'd needed to cut and run and been pursued. Since he doesn't, he is happily imagining pouring a cup or ten of Horne's coffee down Red's throat. Faraday would help.

"I have seen cows do many loco things," Vasquez says. It's not really a lie, but the last thing he needs is for Clarence to mention this to Amos or—worse—Rattigan. Clarence's face scrunches; of course he's chosen now to suddenly possess an ounce of skepticism. "Oh, you do not believe me? Let me tell you about a cow we all called Señora..."

Vasquez spends the rest of their miserably wet ride telling tales about real things he'd seen cows do during his time on Reyes' ranch, both with and without cowhand interference. By the time supper rolls around, Clarence is still damp but laughing, one story away from believing cows can fly.

***

The temptation to shoot the sneer off Hank's face knowing there'd be a reward for it—knowing he can't, not yet—makes the following days of normal ranch duties feel endless. 

Vasquez watches each moonrise as the bone-pale crescent narrows into a sliver and waits. He waits for the stolen letter to be discovered. He waits to be told when the raid will be. He waits for Hank or Buck or Rattigan to decide they want a quick $500. He waits for Amos to assign him a different line, away from the spring. He waits for Clarence to rile the wrong cow and get gored. He waits for Faraday to ride in, guns blazing. He waits, teeth gritted, fist clenched around a wooden fish, and keeps putting two pebbles in the boulder's hollow.

One morning, Buck meets them outside the bunkhouse leading a big bay gelding with more rope than any one cowhand could ever need hitched to his saddle. Amos grimaces but says nothing. Clarence's shoulders hunch up around his ears at the sight and stay there until Buck leaves them watering their horses at the spring, riding on eastward without a word spoken.

"What is he doing?" Vasquez hisses.

"Mr Rattigan has him check the route for holes an' such, best he can," Clarence ducks his head. "Gonna be dark as anything."

"Then—we are—tonight?"

"Reckon so."

When Clarence turns to mount his horse, Vasquez swiftly scoops up a handful of silt and packs it into the hollow, praying less than half a day's warning will be enough. Praying, too, that Buck doesn't encounter Red in the flat stretch of land between the two ranches. But those worries are tiny compared to the soul-soothing relief that comes with knowing he will never have to sleep surrounded by strangers in Doc Ranch's bunkhouse again.

Clarence catches him shaking grit from his fingers and cocks his head; Vasquez flicks a palmful of water at him and grins into Jack's shoulder when Clarence yelps. He swings into the saddle and calls, "Race you to the rocks!"

Galloping downstream, Vasquez feels like laughing for the first time in a long while. He is also feeling generous, so he reins in Jack's eager headlong flight to give Clarence a fighting chance. Not too much—he still wants to win.

His good mood endures coaching Clarence through roping a few newborn calves and untangling his lasso from his stirrup (twice), but when they get back to the bunkhouse Hank is waiting for them on a sleek black gelding. It's far too handsome a horse for the likes of Hank with its bright blaze and stockings; Vasquez is willing to bet it hasn't been his long.

"Mr Rattigan wants a word," Hank says. Since they've just turned their horses out, it's obvious he expects them to follow on foot.

Clarence ducks his head and does just that. Vasquez holds out a few moments more, jaw clenched. He lights a cigarillo and begins to walk only when Clarence throws a worried glance over his shoulder. Someone must protect Clarence from himself.

They walk all the way to Rattigan's house. Rattigan stands on the top step of the porch in his usual catalog-cowhand getup, but today there's a gun belt buckled around his hips. Hank stays mounted, his gaze shifting between the sinking sun and the worn track leading to Doc Ranch's main gate. 

"Why the long face, Clarence?" Rattigan calls as they trudge closer. "Things ain't gone sour between you and the missus already, have they?"

"No, sir," Clarence tells his boots.

"Glad to hear it. Wouldn't do for a sweet thing like your girl to be unhappy. I'm sure she'll be mighty impressed when you tell her you've got your own herd to go with that land o' yours."

"Yes, sir."

The gold-edged grin creeps across Rattigan's face. "Would you believe Vasquez here told me he don't think you're up to the job we got planned tonight? I defended you, son, I just want you to know. You done right by me and your missus three times now, I got faith in the fourth."

Clarence flinches but doesn't look up. "Thank you, sir." 

Rattigan nods, satisfied Clarence won't budge from his place, and turns to Vasquez. "And you, vaquero, I'm sure you'll be real happy to keep your feet on the ground."

"Yes, sir," Vasquez grits out, picturing Rattigan with a bullet between his eyes to keep his temper.

Hank smiles, all teeth, and Clarence sidles back a step. 

"Now, I expect y'all to bring back as many as you can manage, y'hear? Only souls over there are Mrs Newsom and that old foreman of hers, and they ain't got a clue what's comin'." Rattigan hooks his thumbs into his gun belt, twisting one foot at the heel to inspect the toe of his boot. "Hank's about ready to head into town, and then you two'll get on with it."

Vasquez frowns. "He is not coming with us?"

"Hank's got a different speciality, a-mee-go." Rattigan chuckles. "Namely makin' sure no one's got any second thoughts about going through with the job. You understand. Y'all bring me back some horses and Hank'll have a nice, quiet time in Fancy Gap. You don't, Hank'll get to work."

"You mean..." Vasquez trails off. He knows. A word in the sheriff's ear about a nearby Mexican outlaw and there'll be a posse breathing down his neck before he can spit. By the rigid set of Clarence's shoulders, Hank's destination means something to him, too, and it's not hard to guess what. Clarence's wife still lives in town—a visit from a man wanted for robbery and murder is only going to end one way.

Rattigan smiles that same gold-edged smile before turning away. "Best get on your way, Hank. Don't want to keep anyone waitin'."

With one last baring of teeth, Hank throws a mocking salute at them and spurs his horse down the path to town.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts: 
>   * A cattle ranch's herd of horses for the cowhands' use was called a remuda.
>   * Screwworm maggots only eat live flesh. Gross. [They were successfully eradicated in the US and Mexico a few decades ago.](https://www.farmprogress.com/story-readers-choices-10-greatest-beef-innovations-14-49757)
>   * I watched an [Our Wyoming Life](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uZvK4P1BLhI) video about animal stocking rates (basically how many cows you can support with x amount of land) and given the area, Clarence's 300 acres could probably support like... six cows. He's not a smart kid.
>   * Historically speaking, Vasquez probably wouldn't be able to read, but it's my fic and Mrs Reyes was a kind lady (who was very angry at her husband for leaving Vasquez out to dry).
>   * Not to worry, the others will turn up again in the next chapter. :)
> 

> 
> Thanks again to everyone who commented on the last chapter! Those comments definitely helped me push through this one. :D Oh, also, I am on [tumblr](http://whitedatura.tumblr.com) (same username as AO3) and love getting [asks](http://whitedatura.tumblr.com/ask)!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how I thought this was going to be the last chapter? It... isn't. Oops. I cut my dithering-over-it time in half, though. Progress!

**NEWSOM RANCH**

It is _dark_.

It is so stupidly dark that Vasquez spends most of the ride worrying that Jack is going to step in a hole or on a slippery rock or otherwise stumble and break a leg and Faraday will never, ever forgive him. 

(If he lives to be forgiven.)

They'd met up with Buck at the spring as the last rays of sunlight gilded the scrubland into something almost beautiful. He'd shoved sacks of tools at them, keeping a battered-looking lantern for himself, and they'd set out with no more fuss than a usual line ride. Less, since Clarence hasn't spoken a word since that last _sir_ at the house.

Under Vasquez, Jack's breathing is heavier than usual, the only sign he's feeling any strain from the unfamiliar nighttime ride. Their pace is slow and careful, but what little light there is fades the further they go. Vasquez desperately wants to reach into his vest pocket for the wooden fish, but if he drops it he will never see it again. He chews on a cigar instead and takes comfort in the familiar weight of his guns at his hips.

After an eternity, Clarence murmurs from the lead, "Almost there."

They fetch up against the fence of Newsom Ranch's west pasture and Vasquez hears Clarence dismount. His footsteps crunch slowly in one direction, then double back. He lets out an occasional hiss of pain that Buck makes noisier by snapping, "Quiet!"

"Found it," Clarence finally whispers.

The jangle and clomp of Buck dismounting is ten times louder than any sound Clarence has made. There's a creak of wood, a few grunts of effort, and the rasp of a struck match. The lantern flares to life inside the pasture, Buck's massive chest between it and the distant house. He clamps a metal shield around the glass, leaving a thin band to shine only in the fence's direction. There's a brief shadow as Clarence crosses to the horses, his hand raised to his mouth. He must've found the already partially-sawed section of fence by running his fingers over the rails until he'd felt the notches and earned a few splinters for his trouble.

"Hitch the horses and get the saws," Buck growls at Clarence, all his attention on hooking the lantern to a strap hanging across his chest. It's almost too good an opportunity to waste, but killing Buck when they haven't yet begun—Vasquez has to wait. He can be patient. Then Buck says, "Vaquero, you work from the outside," and his hands twitch toward his guns.

Being outside the pasture will put Vasquez in the light cast by the lantern while Buck and Clarence remain relatively safe in the shadows. As far as Buck knows, Vasquez will be the one potentially seen and shot at should anyone from Newsom Ranch look westward.

It's a shame Buck won't live long enough to find out how wrong he is.

Vasquez takes the handsaw Clarence passes him and fits it into the existing notch of the top rail opposite Buck and begins. There are three rails; two cut clean away and the third decorated with Buck's dead body should be plenty damning so that even a corrupt sheriff won't be able to keep denying the thievery, not with Sam looking over his shoulder. 

Two rails. Then he can shoot Buck and figure out what to do about Hank with Sam and the others.

For a few minutes there is only the steady _shurr-vip shurr-vip_ of the saws, the light jerking in time with the sound.

"Almost through," Buck mutters. "Catch it."

Vasquez would like to let the heavy rail crush Buck's feet, but Clarence's head is in the way, crouched as he is to work on the middle one. The wood lists to the side and Buck drops his saw to get both hands under it and heave, nearly hitting Clarence anyway when the last sliver on Vasquez's end splinters free. It's a stupid, unnecessary risk. They are supposed to drive the stolen horses through the gap they're making—leaving one side jagged is asking for wounds and panic and screwworms. Vasquez would make a much better horse thief than Buck.

Buck moves away to chuck the broken rail into the scrubby grass, leaving Vasquez and Clarence near-blind with the afterimage of the lantern. Vasquez tries to blink it away; Clarence's saw pauses briefly and Vasquez hears a hitching, wet inhale.

Buck stomps back over and rumbles, "Keep goin'!"

Grimacing, Vasquez drops to his knees. Clarence shifts to avoid Vasquez's saw in the bottom rail and continues on, his head down. Buck gets to work at the other end of the middle, lantern swinging rhythmically.

The distance is nothing, the angle is doable. The trick of it is going to be the draw—he can't give Buck any time to react.

The second rail falls. Vasquez snatches his fingers back just in time, stumbling into a crouch to catch his balance. "Watch it, pendejo!"

Buck spits at his feet before he turns to heave the rail away. It's the best opening Vasquez is going to get. 

The sharp crack of his pistol shatters the still night.

The horses startle, but they're cowponies through and through, too accustomed to gunfire to bolt. Everything goes dark when Buck hits the ground, the lantern trapped under his body. Clarence makes a high-pitched noise of fear and hightails it past Vasquez, off like a shot into the darkness.

Vasquez swears and holsters his gun, but before he can do anything he feels something—some _one_ dart past him in pursuit. In the faint starlight there's a flash of silver. "Don't kill him!" Vasquez yells.

"Fine!" Billy calls back. The pounding footsteps end abruptly with the thud of a body hitting the ground and a muffled shriek. Billy's voice is faint in the distance when he shouts, "Got him!"

A new pair of lanterns flare to life farther along the scrubland side of the fence. Vasquez turns toward them, a hand raised to shield his eyes. There are three figures, one of which is rapidly crossing the stretch of grass between them.

"Vas!" Faraday barrels into him, grabbing his arms and shaking none-too-gently. "It's darker than the devil's asshole out here. How's my horse?"

Following at a more sedate pace, Sam's snort mingles with Goodnight's sigh.

"I traded him for a mule. Less stubborn," Vasquez says and is treated to Faraday's strangled outrage and another shake before he twists out of the hold. 

Faraday doesn't let him get far, hooking an arm around his neck and knocking his hat askew. "Fuck off, jackass, you did not."

Vasquez ducks his head and grins. "I did. He is going to carry our coffee. Ask Sam."

"That's been the plan since Amador," Sam agrees as he claps Vasquez on the shoulder Faraday isn't draped over. "Glad to see you in one piece, son."

"Likewise, mon ami," Goodnight says over Faraday's muttered, "There ain't no mule."

Even in the chill of the near-moonless night, Vasquez feels warmed through, like he's just drained a glass of good whiskey. Then Faraday whistles, short and sharp and _loud_ inches from his ear, and Vasquez remembers that he is an idiot who is maybe— _maybe_ —in love with another idiot.

"Gracias, cabrón, I was tired of hearing with both ears," Vasquez grumbles. Utterly ignoring his complaint, Faraday wheels them around to face the low nicker that comes from the gloom. He nearly knocks Vasquez over in the process, which might've been his intention if the snicker Vasquez hears when he grabs on to Faraday to stay upright is any indication.

Jack, who had definitely been tied to the fence a ways off, looms out of the dark to greet his master.

"A mule," Faraday scoffs, rubbing the spot on Jack's neck that makes his lower lip hang.

"He is a good horse," Vasquez admits because he is not too proud to acknowledge it.

It's hard to fully take in the expression Faraday turns on him from so close, but he looks at least as fond of Vasquez as he is of his horse, eyes soft and creased at the corners. Vasquez is tempted to do something stupid, like kiss Faraday when neither of them are planning on being dead or miles away come morning, but then Billy appears out of the dark, hauling a stiff-limbed Clarence into the circle of lantern light, and the moment slips away.

"Here." Billy lets go of Clarence's vest; Clarence staggers and crumples like a newborn foal. What little instinct for self-preservation he has must kick in, because he doesn't try to run again. 

Goodnight crouches down and lifts Clarence's hat to get a look at him. "Who is this unfortunate fella and why are we allowing him to continue drawing breath?"

Clarence flinches when Goodnight drops his hat back on his head but otherwise doesn't react.

"Clarence Thompson, Mrs Newsom's former ranch hand," Vasquez says. Goodnight's furrowed brow clears in obvious recognition of the name. "And we are not killing him because he loves his wife very much, and she needs our help. I thought you would be happy, amigo."

"I suppose I might be, but that hinges on one important detail: is she pregnant?

Billy laughs, a rolling chuckle that has Goodnight grinning and the rest of them—excepting Clarence—joining in. Since Clarence doesn't seem inclined to speak for himself, Vasquez answers for him. "I do not think so. He would have mentioned it."

"Then yes, I am delighted you two misanthropes were wrong." Goodnight pats his knees and straightens up, meeting Billy's eyes and tipping his head toward the fence. He raises his lantern to shed more light inside the pasture before stepping delicately over the remaining rail to prod at Buck's body with the muzzle of his rifle. "But I can't say I'm terribly pleased that I waited for hours in a cold, dark, dirt hole with Joshua and Lord knows what other critters for you to kill one man. Granted, he's a mighty big son of a bitch, but _one_?"

"Hey!" Faraday protests. "Sam's the one who said we could only dig one hole."

"Funny how I didn't want to risk any cross-fire in—how'd you put it? The devil's asshole?"

Vasquez closes his eyes and rubs at his forehead under the band of his hat. "I can't believe I missed any of you."

"Your mistake," Billy says without glancing up from rifling through Buck's pockets.

Goodnight sniffs and turns away to wedge a foot under Buck's shoulder, levering him onto his side with Billy's help. There's a dark patch spreading across his shirt above the lantern strap. With the heel of his boot and a grunt, Goodnight kicks Buck onto his back and douses the light after Billy comes up empty-handed. "A fallen Goliath he may be, but there's still only one of him."

"I thought there would be two," Vasquez says. It does not sound any more impressive than one, but Faraday's refusal to budge from his side is making it difficult to get his thoughts in order. "That is Buck. Coyote Hank—Red told you about him, yes? The outlaw working for Rattigan wanted in three states for robbery and murder?"

"Sure did. Sounds like a real nice fella."

Clarence whimpers. They ignore him.

"I thought he would be here, too, but Rattigan made sure we knew he would be waiting in Fancy Gap while we stole the horses to make sure we went through with it. I could have shot him at Doc Ranch, but—"

"Like hell," Faraday says, arm tightening around Vasquez's neck. "Not even Wild Jack can make you bulletproof. You shoot the boss's pet outlaw in the middle of a place like that and you're gonna get shot back. You gotta leave something for the rest of us to do besides take care of Mattie's horses, muchacho."

"Faraday's right," Sam says. "As far as Rattigan and Coyote Hank know, this raid's going according to plan. We've got time to get Sheriff Dunn and a deputy or two out of their cozy beds, quiet-like, and rub their noses in the facts. The sheriff'll have a hell of a time ignoring a sawed-through fence and a dead cattle rustler even without that letter you smuggled out." 

Faraday whistles, this one low and impressed, and jostles Vasquez. "You missed the fireworks when Mattie read that letter. I thought she was gonna spit nails and use 'em to build a nice pine box to put Rattigan in."

"Is that more or less mad than when you turned up on your borrowed horse?"

"More. A lot more," Billy chimes in. It makes sense: the return of a wayward brother—even one that'd stolen a horse—pales in comparison to what's shaping up to be a year-long plot to steal her family's livelihood.

"Oye, wait—Buck was a cattle rustler?" As if he'd needed another reason to despise the man.

"Sure was," Sam replies. "A Pinkerton agent owed me a favor and found a warrant for him based on what you told Red. The name his ma gave him was Wilbur Clark, a known rustler out of Utah territory. Worth a whole fifty dollars. Alive, but the horse theft makes that moot."

"Fifty?" Vasquez scoffs. He is worth ten times as much.

Goodnight chuckles, abandoning Buck's body to lean against a fence post, hip cocked. "Rattigan's got a real talent for attracting unsavory types. Which explains how Vasquez managed to get himself in as one of the thieves in less than two weeks."

Vasquez grins. "I am just that good, cabrón."

"The kid here doesn't seem all that unsavory, though," Goodnight continues, squatting down to offer Clarence what Vasquez is sure is Billy's canteen. "Young, dumb, and in love, maybe."

"Last I checked, bein' stupid ain't an excuse to take somethin' that don't belong to you," Faraday says.

Billy murmurs, "He checked?" ostensibly to Goodnight, but they can all hear him. Faraday glares.

"I'm sorry," Clarence croaks.

"So sorry you came back for _the fourth time_ to steal Newsom horses?" Faraday finally lets go of Vasquez to stalk toward Clarence; Vasquez lunges and grabs his arm. "Güero, stop." Miraculously, Faraday does. 

"I'm sorry," Clarence says again, trailed by a hiccuping sob. "I didn't—I didn't mean for—please, my Mabel—my wife lives in town, sir. With my ma. They ain't done nothing. They don't know nothing. If we don't come back with the horses, Mr Coyote Hank's gonna—he's gonna..."

Vasquez winces. That is worse than he thought.

"We ain't gonna let Coyote Hank kill your missus or your ma. I can't promise Mrs Newsom won't kill _you_ , but your ladies'll be fine," Sam says, matter-of-fact. "Come on, son, get up, dust yourself off. There's work that needs doing."

***

Vasquez takes Clarence to collect the other two horses to help him remember the world hasn't ended and no one is dead yet.

(Except Buck, but he doesn't count.)

They're checking the girths when Clarence asks in a small voice, "Mr Vasquez, those're your friends?"

That warm feeling flares up again when he answers, "Yes, they are. And the big angry one there," he gestures at Faraday, who has appropriated Goodnight's lantern and is stomping his way over, "is also Mrs Newsom's brother."

Clarence's "Oh. Oh, no," fades into a mouse-quiet whisper.

***

It's still dark as anything beyond the lantern light, but the company is much better.

By mutual agreement, they leave off discussing anything more than the broad strokes of a plan until they can collect Mrs Newsom, Horne, and Red, all on guard around the Newsom stables and barn. They do talk about how Doc Ranch is laid out, Vasquez recalling as much detail as he can since Clarence had gone back to being mute after Faraday snarled at him, but it's not much.

"Not much?" Faraday snaps. Following behind him, Jack snorts and paws the ground. " _Not much_? You went over there, got hired on, worked a regular goddamn job while spyin' on the boss, found an incriminatin' letter, _and_ got yourself in on the raid and that's _not much_?"

Vasquez's mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

"Lord Almighty, but you are _still_ snippier than a barber's favorite pair of scissors." Goodnight puts a hand on Billy's shoulder and twists around to get a good look at Faraday. "I was suffering under the misapprehension that would change once Vasquez came back, but you live to invert my expectations, don't you?"

"Mind your own dang business, Robicheaux."

"I missed this," Sam says. Vasquez has no idea if he's joking.

Faraday's grumbling to himself when Sam holds up a hand to bring their party to a halt. He lifts his lantern high and takes his hat off to pass it in front of the light two times. A ways off, two other lights flare to life, high off the ground, and mimic the signal.

"All is well, hm?" Vasquez says.

"So far, so good." Sam shoots a sly smile at Faraday. "Ain't that how it goes?"

Hemmed in as he is in the middle of the group, Clarence nearly jumps out of his skin when they all start laughing. Goodnight is still trying to goad Faraday into telling the story again as they approach the barn and Mrs Newsom strides out, her rifle a shadow on her shoulder. Horne and Red melt out of the darkness behind her.

"What've y'all got to be crowin' about the night my ranch gets raided?"

At the front of the group, Goodnight stands a little straighter. "A charming anecdote dear Joshua shared with us some time ago, ma'am. Rest assured that the raid's been stopped; your west pasture is now adorned with a dead cattle rustler-cum-horse thief."

"Only one?" She raises her lantern and squints. "Did our vaquero magician make it back all right?"

"Yes, ma'am," Vasquez replies, ducking around Faraday to grab hold of Clarence. "And I brought someone."

Clarence tries to shrink away when Vasquez pushes him forward, but he's about as heavy as a kitten and half as strong. Mrs Newsom sucks in a lungful of air when she sees him. "Clarence."

Wringing his hat between his hands, Clarence bows his head. "Mrs Newsom."

"Son of a bitch. Alonso's never gonna let me hear the end of this." She snatches Clarence's hat from his trembling grip and jams it back on his head. "Let me guess, Domingo was in on it, too? Always knew you were thick as thieves, but I never thought you were _actual_ thieves."

"Yes, ma'am. I'm—I'm sorry, ma'am."

The pitiful apology sets her off like a stick of dynamite. "I'll _show you_ sorry—" she snarls and lunges at him. Faraday catches her around the waist and gets walloped for his trouble as Vasquez yanks Clarence out of range.

"Mattie—shit, _ow_ , fuck, stop—Mattie, stop, you can strangle him later—"

"I gave your sorry ass a job to help your ma out and you repay me by _stealing my goddamn horses_?" She stops struggling briefly to pin Vasquez with a blistering glare. "Why ain't he dead?"

Vasquez is perfectly willing to explain the wholly sensible reasons he'd decided Clarence should live (and is prepared to skip over the unforgivably sentimental ones), but Goodnight, arms outstretched, shoulders his way into the conversation. "Mrs Newsom, I'm sure you can appreciate that there are extenuating circumstances surrounding the boy's offenses."

Mrs Newsom opens her mouth, probably to explain exactly what she doesn't appreciate about Goodnight opening his, but closes it in favor of elbowing Faraday in the gut and growling, "Get offa me, jackass."

Wincing, Faraday steps back to stand with Vasquez between Clarence and his sister.

"Someone better explain real fast. Not you," she snaps when Goodnight makes to begin. "Sprinklin' sugar on cow shit ain't gonna turn it into pie."

Faraday doesn't hide his smirk fast enough to avoid Mrs Newsom stomping on his foot.

Sam steps in to explain about Rattigan sending Coyote Hank to lurk in Fancy Gap and finishes with, "I reckon we bag Coyote Hank in town to keep Clarence's missus and ma safe—dead or alive, ain't too fussed about which—and then trot Clarence on over to the sheriff for a first-hand account of the goings-on at Doc Ranch. After all, he's part of Rattigan's outfit now, not yours. Crooked as Sheriff Dunn is, that's a hard sort of testimony to bend around, especially with a couple bounties to back it up. He'll have to get off his ass and at least pay Doc Ranch a visit." Sam's lantern dips as he shifts to peer at Clarence. "Of course, you could always kill him now and dump him out by the fence, but in my experience dead men ain't much for talking."

Vasquez presses his lips together and doesn't argue.

Mrs Newsom scowls. "I swear to God, Clarence, a man calls himself Coyote Hank and you didn't think there might be somethin' shady going on?"

"I..." Clarence's chest hitches and his shoulders curl inward.

After so long apart, Horne's high, soft voice is a strange comfort when he speaks up. "It's a merciful woman who finds it in her heart to forgive the repentant foolish their intentions." No one looks at Faraday, but no one has to. 

(Mrs Newsom is treating Faraday like a nuisance instead of a ghost; Vasquez had seen the beginning of the shift the day they'd discovered the damaged fence. Maybe it is not forgiveness, but it's something.)

"Save your preachin'," she mutters before spinning on her heel and marching off toward the bunkhouse. "C'mon, I ain't doing any plotting standin' out here in the dark."

Vasquez is the first to follow, knocking elbows with Faraday as he passes. "Is there anything to eat?"

***

"Jesus wept, didn't they feed you over there?"

Vasquez scrapes the last of that night's stew from his plate before happily accepting the strip of jerky Red holds out. "Easier to have an appetite with friends," he says through his mouthful.

Faraday's face does something complicated before his mouth flattens into a thin line.

"Clarence fed me," Vasquez offers, gesturing with the jerky. 

Clarence stares, unblinking, into the cup of coffee Goodnight had set in front of him.

They'd herded him onto the stool in the corner of the bunkhouse both to put him as far from the door as possible and to keep a barrier between him and Mrs Newsom, who had refused a seat at the table in favor of pacing the length of the room. Vasquez does not think he will try to run, but he's significantly less confident about Mrs Newsom reigning in her impulse to choke him.

At the head of the table, Sam arranges three empty plates and gestures with his knife at each in turn. "Way I see it, we've got three fronts to cover: Fancy Gap, Doc Ranch, and here. No sense in taking chances when we got plenty of folk."

Mrs Newsom scoffs. "You run into a lot of trouble where seven of you ain't enough?"

The offhand question produces an uncomfortable silence teeming with the unspoken story of Rose Creek. Vasquez chews his jerky and studies the grain of the table. If not a one of them has mentioned Rose Creek to her in the past three weeks, he will not be the first. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Mrs Newsom's boots pause by the cookstove.

"Right," she drawls. "Ain't got time to open that kettle of fish. As long as a few of us are staying here, I'll be goin' into town, seein' as how it's my ranch. Can't say as I'd mind the chance to shoot this Coyote Hank and dump his sorry carcass on the sheriff's doorstep."

No one tries to convince her otherwise. In short order it's decided that Sam, as their only official lawman ("Duly sworn warrant officer of the circuit court in Wichita, Kansas, licensed peace officer in the Indian Territories, Arkansas, Nebraska, and seven other states," Vasquez and Faraday recite amid good-natured snickers) will go with her, along with Clarence and Horne.

"I will go, too," Vasquez says, already imagining a bullet between Hank's eyes. It doesn't much matter if it's his or Mrs Newsom's so long as he gets to see it.

There's a pause in the discussion as Sam slowly turns to eyeball him. Vasquez's spine stiffens as the scrutiny goes on so long that everyone else turns to stare at him, too.

"What?"

"Vasquez, you can't show your damn face in town while Coyote Hank's still got breath in him and you know it. He tells anyone what you are and you'll be in a heap of trouble." That's... true. Vasquez glowers. Sam raises his eyebrows, waiting, then continues, "That point made, let's aim for dead instead of alive on Hank's bounty."

"Hold on a dang second," Faraday says. His face is clouding over faster than the desert sky before a roaring thunderstorm. "What's Hank got to be tellin'?"

"And before you volunteer again," Sam goes on like Faraday hasn't spoken, "you're gonna be the only outlaw Rattigan's got left. If we take you to Doc Ranch and he's got half a brain, he'll point a finger at you faster'n you wolfed down that stew."

Mrs Newsom mutters something distinctly uncomplimentary about the state of Rattigan's brain.

Vasquez crosses his arms. "Fine."

Jaw working, Faraday stabs a finger across the table at Red. "You _lied_ to me! You said he was okay!"

Red, placid, casts a pointed look at Vasquez, whole and hale.

"Other folks knowin' about him bein' an outlaw _isn't okay_ ," Faraday hisses, wild-eyed. "Especially not when those folks are _also outlaws_!"

"I told Sam."

Faraday turns on Sam immediately, his eyes narrowing with the promise of hellfire. "And you didn't think we should _do something_?"

"I did do something: I trusted Vasquez's judgement, seeing as how he was the one in possession of all the facts. And here we are, one thief down, one ready to come clean to the sheriff, and—you've got the best view, I think—have any hairs on Vasquez's head come to harm?"

Faraday tries to glare at Vasquez, but deflates when he only gets a shrug in response. "Fine," he grits out. "Then I'm coming to Fancy Gap to make sure Coyote Hank ends up dead. Who else knows?"

"I think young Clarence might, since someone in this very room started hollering about it," Goodnight observes.

Clarence startles at the sound of his name and tries to sink through the wall when they all look at him. "I, uh, I—I don't know nothin'." He shifts and straightens a little, some of the confidence he'd had when he'd asked Vasquez about his sweetheart stiffening his spine. "I owe Mr Vasquez my life twice over. The sheriff won't hear nothin' about him from me."

Twice is probably understating it, but Vasquez has no desire to go into any details. He clears his throats and adds, "Buck probably knew, but if he talks we will have a much bigger problem on our hands. No one else, I think."

"All right, Faraday, you'll come with us," Sam says before the conversation can derail further. He taps the middle plate. "I think Goodnight and Billy will be eyes enough near Doc Ranch in case Rattigan gets wind of the trouble brewin' for him before we want him to. If he runs, maybe try not to stop him too permanently. I'd like to get a confession outta him."

"Hmm," is all Billy says as he picks dirt from under his fingernails with a wicked-looking knife.

(Clarence's wide eyes follow the point of the knife before flicking up to Billy's face as if he's just now processing that the man with a visible minimum of six knives strapped to his person had been the one to chase after him in the dark.)

"There's only him and an older woman in his house," Vasquez says and briefly describes Rattigan. Clarence chips in with, "He always wears blue somewhere—uh, blue like the buildings in town used to be. Like... like Mrs Newsom's house. An' he only rides palominos."

Vasquez pats Clarence on the shoulder and gets a ghost of a smile in return.

"Red will stay on Newsom land—out by the west pasture?" Sam asks. Red's chin lifts in acknowledgement. "Just in case anyone from Doc Ranch tries to take the quickest route here—or if Buck's body gets any funny ideas, I suppose."

"And I will stay near the house?" Vasquez guesses, unimpressed. He does not need coddling.

"You'll stay near Jacob. Keep him safe for me," Mrs Newsom says, soft but firm. Her face hardens. "Rattigan is a lily-livered son of a bitch with the moral backbone of a slug. He ain't above hurting a child."

Shamefaced, Vasquez swallows and nods.

"And Jacob don't need to know what's happening 'til it's happened, understand? John bein' gone so long has been hard on him. I don't want to... I'll—I'll explain when it's fixed." Hesitation sits strangely on her. She squares her shoulders, raises her chin, and adds, "Don't let him shirk his chores."

"Sí, señora."

A foot nudges his under the table and his eyes dart to Faraday, who holds his gaze until Sam pointedly coughs.

"How long we got, Clarence?"

Clarence blinks away from where he'd apparently been staring at Vasquez as well. "'Scuse me, Mr Sam, sir?"

"You've done this before. How long's it take to get back to Doc Ranch with the horses so Rattigan calls off Coyote Hank?"

"Oh, we ain't allowed to talk to him 'til he wakes up, which is—uh, a coupla hours past sunrise, sir. We've always got time to settle the horses and get a little shut eye. It's... it _was_ the only time Mr—I mean, Buck was... not to speak ill of the dead—"

"Answer the damn question," Faraday demands.

"I, uh, I—it's always long past the time Mr Amos starts the line rides in the mornin'. Mr Rattigan always sent Buck to do it. I—I don't know where Mr—where Coyote Hank waits in town."

"The Colonel's Ass, I bet."

Horne peers at Faraday. "The whose what?"

"The cathouse, Jack." 

"Ah."

There's some talk then about the layout of the town and the best direction to enter from, what Coyote Hank looks like, if they should go to the sheriff first, who needs to stay hidden, who might be used as bait to draw Hank out (Clarence. It's Clarence.), and how likely the bait is to get shot; Vasquez listens with half an ear, his eyelids heavy despite the two cups of coffee he'd drunk.

He jolts awake when Sam pushes back from the table. "All right. We got some time before it's a little brighter out than the devil's asshole. Let's get some sleep while we can."

"Vas is way ahead of you."

Vasquez yawns. "Some of us did more than sit in a hole for a few hours, güero."

"He's got you there," Sam says, patting Faraday on the shoulder and propelling him toward the bunks.

Most of the others stand and shuffle off. Mrs Newsom stays by the door, watching Goodnight usher Clarence toward the back of the bunkhouse. Horne pauses, hat between his hands. "Would you like some company to the house?" he asks like he knows the answer will be a resounding _no_ , but his sense of decency insists he at least make the attempt at showing a lady proper respect.

"As a matter of fact, I would. Walk me home, Mr Vasquez."

Vasquez wishes people would stop calling him mister. He blinks and rubs his eyes. "Qué? Me?"

"Yes, you."

"Mattie—"

"Shut up, Josh," she says pleasantly.

Vasquez finds himself out under the stars once more. It's not a long walk to the house, but Mrs Newsom waits until they're a good distance from the bunkhouse to say, "You read that letter."

"Sí." There is no reason to pretend he didn't.

"You, me, Alonso, and Mr Chisolm are the only ones who know everything in it. I'd like to keep it that way, at least for now. Understand?"

Vasquez hesitates. It has been over a week since he read it, and most of what he remembers is the impressive litany of lies Rattigan put to paper. There hadn't _been_ much else, had there? "I am not sure..."

"I know you 'n Josh are close," Mrs Newsom says, stopping to look him in the eye. Briefly distracted by the realization she's almost as tall as he is, her words take a moment to sink in. Something in the letter she does not want Faraday to know? "And I know you've already done me and mine a great service, but—after this mess, I'll..." She shakes her head, starts over. "I try to face my troubles head-on, and this'll be the same, I swear it."

Slowly, Vasquez nods.

"Take care of my boy tomorrow, Mr Vasquez."

"I will. And I will keep the old man out of trouble, too. No charge."

She smiles for the first time he can remember, pats his arm, and leaves him there in the dark.

Horne is already snoring when he returns. In the bunk above him, Clarence is curled on his side and wide awake—from the noise or nerves, Vasquez couldn't say. Probably both. Too preoccupied to do more than nod at the kid, Vasquez doesn't notice his own bunk is taken until he's staring down at Faraday, fast asleep. 

"Qué carajo, güerito," he grumbles and climbs onto the empty upper bunk.

***

Vasquez stirs awake all too soon, but the familiar clatter of Horne cooking makes it bearable. As he props himself up on his elbow, something shifts under his thigh. After a silent, fervent prayer that whatever it is isn't alive—he wouldn't put it past Faraday to have switched bunks and knowingly left some vermin for Vasquez to deal with—he reaches down and sighs in relief when he feels smooth wood.

Of course when he looks up Faraday is there, watching him slip the wooden fish back into his vest pocket. Their eyes meet. Vasquez swallows, mouth dry, and cannot think of a single thing to say.

And then Clarence blunders between them, trips over nothing, and sloshes coffee at Faraday's feet.

Vasquez flops onto his back and lets out a wheezy chuckle, somewhere between relief and disappointment.

Clarence, shoulders hunched around his ears, dares a glance up when Faraday huffs in amusement.

"Bless your heart," Faraday drawls. "Who made that coffee?"

Wide-eyed, Clarence stammers out, "M-Mr Horne?"

Faraday hums, peering at the packed dirt floor. "That'd be why I can't tell where it ended up."

Vasquez's chuckle turns into genuine laughter—Faraday is right, there really isn't a difference. Clarence only looks confused.

Taking pity, Vasquez says, "It is better on the ground, trust me."

"I heard that," Horne calls.

"Good," Vasquez and Faraday chorus.

***

The eastern sky has hardly begun to gray with the coming dawn as they ready the horses. Mrs Newsom saddles Queenie, grim-faced. Vasquez does what he can to help, feeling aimless after weeks of regular work. The most excitement he will get today is explaining to Alonso what's going on and maybe rescuing Jacob from a ill-tempered hen.

(He saddles his horse anyway. Just in case. It is a little strange to be putting his own tack on his own horse, but, as Faraday is so fond of reminding him, Wild Jack is not his.)

Goodnight and Billy set out first to get in position before the others kick the hornet's nest that is Fancy Gap. Vasquez loans Billy his pliers with the solemn suggestion, "Cut any devil's wire you see," and Billy nods, equally solemn. Red trails after them to stand guard at Newsom Ranch's western border.

Vasquez watches the others mount up and does his best to ignore the gnawing dread in his gut. He has no doubt they can take care of themselves (excepting Clarence, who Vasquez would maybe trust to take care of a rock); he only wishes there had been more time. Time for Mrs Newsom to say a proper goodbye to her son, time to move Clarence's wife and mother somewhere safe, time to offer Faraday the sort of send-off Faraday had given him.

Instead he settles for saying, "Do not do anything too stupid, güerito," and dares to rest a hand right above Faraday's knee. 

"I have never done anything stupid in my life," Faraday declares.

The silence that follows is louder than any disagreement.

Faraday squints at all of them, saving Vasquez for last. Sedately, he winks, and Vasquez ducks his head to cover a laugh.

"Right," Sam says. "I know we're after one man, but this one man's killed folk in three states and thinks he's free and clear to make it four. Keep your head on straight and it'll be fine." The last is obviously directed at Clarence, who looks like he's on the verge of regretting Vasquez's mercy. The five of them head out, Vasquez's hand slipping from Faraday's leg as Wild Jack starts after Queenie on his own accord.

When Clarence passes, Vasquez holds up a hand to stop him for a quick word. In a low voice, he says, "You are doing the right thing for Mabel and your mother," and gets a small nod in return. Vasquez nods back and retreats to the porch, watching until the first streaks of a red and orange dawn begin to lighten the sky, the five riders long since lost in the distance.

When he goes inside the house, Alonso is already there organizing breakfast. Vasquez does not mention he has already eaten and obediently sits at the table to peel and slice the potatoes Alonso points a spoon at.

"Jacob will sleep for a little while longer," Alonso prompts.

"What do you know?"

"Only that you signalled the raid was coming. Since you are here now, that seems to be true."

Keeping his eyes on his knife, Vasquez gives Alonso a brief summary of events and explains where everyone has gone, trying not to feel pathetic at being left behind. He fails and finds himself saying, "I wanted to go to Fancy Gap," before he bites his tongue. Alonso does not know he is an outlaw, and it's better to keep it that way. "Mrs Newsom asked me to stay," is the only sorry excuse he can think to offer. 

Alonso waves him off and cracks a few eggs into a bowl. "Anyone would say that you have done plenty, mijo. I hope you do not mind scrambled eggs; Jacob likes them that way."

Throat suddenly tight, Vasquez swallows. "That is—fine."

"It is a pity I was right about Clarence. I did not want to think he would do such a thing, and Miss Mattie wanted to think it even less."

"Dios mío, Clarence," Vasquez sighs, thankful for the subject change. "He has more lives than a cat."

Alonso chuckles, a rusty but pleasant sound. "The stories I could tell you... but it sounds like you have some of your own. Let's hear them."

Vasquez shares the best ones, ones that are funny now that he is not seconds away from being gored or kicked or otherwise murdered by cows and ineptitude, and Alonso returns the favor. Their groans of commiseration and laughter finally rouse Jacob as Alonso starts the potatoes frying.

"Buenos días," Vasquez says when Jacob shuffles into the room, still rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"G'mornin'," Jacob mumbles. He blinks, rubs his eyes again, then seems to come awake all at once. "Mr Vasquez! You're back! Did you catch any bad guys? Oh, wait, I gotta feed the um, the chickens. Will you—can you..."

Vasquez tries not to laugh at how the boy practically vibrates with indecision, torn between his responsibilities and curiosity. "I will come with you," he offers, pushing back from the table. If Mrs Newsom wants him to keep an eye on her boy, he will do exactly that.

"Really? I'll go fast, I swear!"

Vasquez doesn't need the pointed raise of Alonso's eyebrows to know Jacob should hear only a heavily edited version of events, but that does not mean the telling should be _boring_. Jacob bounds around the coop, the chickens following the haphazard swing of his grain-filled bucket. Vasquez dutifully pumps water as he spins the tale of the secret nighttime raid into something more exciting than the tense ride it had been and makes much of Clarence's decision—in the story he frames it as Clarence's choice—to do the right thing in going to the sheriff. Jacob is such a rapt audience he nearly trips over a chicken on the way back inside.

"Red Harvest is really out there guardin' _our_ horses? He—um." Jacob pauses and frowns at Alonso as he dishes out breakfast. "Where's ma?"

Alonso saves Vasquez from answering. "Gone to town to talk to Sheriff Dunn."

"Oh. When's she comin' back?" In the second it takes for Vasquez and Alonso to exchange a glance, Jacob's face falls. "She's... she _is_ comin' back, ain't she?"

The heartache is plain on Alonso's face when he hurriedly replies, "Sí, sí, sí, of course she is. We are not sure when, but it will be today. You will need to work like three men so that everything will be done when she comes home. You can you do that, right, mijo?" He spoons a few more potatoes onto Jacob's plate.

"Yes, sir," Jacob deflates a little but perks up quickly. "You'll help, right, Mr Vasquez? If we get everythin' done real fast you can tell me more about how Red Harvest protected you at Doc Ranch!"

That is... not quite how Vasquez had put it, but it will do as a distraction. "If you are lucky, I might tell you how I met him."

Wide-eyed, Jacob zips out of the house, hollering something about the barn.

With only two adults and one small boy, ranch duties are pared down to the essentials, but, true to his word, Jacob does his best to help. Vasquez keeps one eye on the horizon as the sun climbs higher, but there is nothing to see. Alonso catches him sighing in Fancy Gap's direction one too many times and sends him inside to put a stew on for later. Jacob comes with him, presumably to help, but that only lasts until Vasquez gets out the onions. The way Jacob's nose scrunches up makes him look so much like a miniature Faraday that Vasquez chuckles and lets him escape upstairs.

He chops the onions and adds them to the pot and tries not to think about what the others are doing. They surely would've made it to Fancy Gap by now; maybe they've already found Hank and dumped him and his warrant on the sheriff's doorstep. Maybe Mrs Newsom has shoved Rattigan's letter in the sheriff's face and they're on their way to Doc Ranch to get her horses back right now.

The letter. Vasquez's gaze strays to Mrs Newsom's neatly-kept writing desk in the corner of the room, remembering how concerned she'd been about Faraday finding out—something. Something from the letter. He glances at the stewpot, then back to the desk. 

If the letter _is_ there, he has already read it. Reading it again will not add to his bounty.

It takes him a minute to find it tucked inside a leather-bound ledger—no fancy gold lettering for Mrs Newsom—and a little more than that to get to the part where Rattigan refers to Jacob as the boy John Newsom took in out of the goodness of his heart. It's considerably more tactful than when he'd called the boy a whoreson to Vasquez's face. At the time he'd thought it was another insult directed at Mrs Newsom herself, but maybe...

On the wall above the desk is a framed photograph. Mrs Newsom's unsmiling face looks out above Jacob, who must only be four or five, his round face framed by curls. Vasquez is more interested in the third subject: a man who can only be John Newsom. His face is narrow with a wide nose and ears that could kindly be called generous. His hair and eyes are as dark as Vasquez's. Jacob looks nothing like him.

The stewpot is beginning to bubble.

By the time Jacob clomps down the stairs holding an Arbuckle's Coffee tin and a deck of cards, Vasquez is chopping carrots. He surreptitiously studies the angle of the Jacob's jaw, still rounded from boyhood, the slant of his eyebrows, the tilt of his nose, the shape of his eyes. Does Jacob know? It is not Vasquez's place to ask.

"What do you have there?"

Shyly, Jacob brings the tin over and takes out a series of wooden figurines, lining them up at the edge of the table. Vasquez recognizes Horne's work: a steer, a wolf, a bear (he doesn't laugh, but it's a near thing), a chicken and...

"What is, uh, that?" he asks, gesturing with his knife toward an oblong lump of wood that has something that might be a long face or maybe a fat tail and not much else in the way of identifying features. (It's not Horne's handiwork, that's for sure. Maybe Jacob tried his hand at whittling.)

"A horse," Jacob answers promptly.

Vasquez looks at the lump. There is a distinct lack of anything resembling legs. "They are very nice."

"Mr Horne made 'em for me, 'cept for the horse. Mr Faraday gave me that one," Jacob explains, clearly delighted that not one but two of his mother's gunslingers have gifted him toys despite the glaring disparity in anatomical accuracy.

"Oh, did he?" Vasquez valiantly keeps a straight face and touches his vest pocket. It's fortunate that fish do not have legs.

Jacob chatters enthusiastically while Vasquez finishes dumping things into the stewpot and then holds out the deck of cards, hopeful. "Can you do more magic? Just a little? I'll collect the eggs right after, I promise."

Vasquez only knows the one trick, but he obliges. It does not impress Jacob nearly as much this time around.

"Mr Faraday knows a lot more magic than you," Jacob informs him dubiously, frowning down at his five of hearts.

Vasquez opens his mouth but thinks better of it, pressing his lips together while exhaling through his nose. "Do you know how to play poker?"

Jacob's face lights up.

They find a handful of buttons for betting and Vasquez shuffles and deals, explaining as he goes. He has a pair of eights and an ace when the sound of hoofbeats outside registers. Jacob perks up at the same time, cards forgotten, calling "Ma!" as he dashes out the front door. 

Vasquez follows, hoping it is the Fancy Gap group returning and not just Alonso back from the east pasture.

It isn't.

Jacob is already off the porch and halfway across the dusty yard when the lone rider reins in his black horse, its white blaze gleaming in the sunlight.

"Jacob!" There's a pistol in his hand that he doesn't remember reaching for.

It's too late.

Hank spurs his horse forward and grabs the frozen Jacob by the back of his shirt, hauling him up into the saddle and clamping an arm around him as he struggles. " _Vaquero_? What the hell're you doin' here?"

Shit, shit, shit. Something must've gone wrong in Fancy Gap for Coyote Hank to be _here_ , but he can barely think about it faced with the more immediate problem that _Hank has Jacob_.

A sneer slowly spreads across Hank's face as Vasquez only stands there, horrified. "You and that greenhorn idiot turned traitor, that it? I knew shit'd gone to hell when I saw that Newsom bitch in town with Clarence, but _you_... You killed a goddamned ranger, but you're too good for horse thievin'? Drop the gun, vaquero." Hank gestures with the muzzle of his pistol toward Jacob's head, a wordless but effective threat.

Vasquez can't risk shooting Hank or his horse with Jacob in the way.

He drops his gun.

Hank raises his.

***

**DEVIL'S CANYON**

Blood spots the strip of cloth clenched between his teeth as Vasquez yanks it tight around his arm. He sways in the saddle but keeps his gaze fixed on the rider in the distance.

His arm will be fine. Probably. The bullet might be lodged inside and every pounding hoofbeat sends a crackling jolt of pain from elbow to shoulder and across his ribs, but there's no time to deal with that or with the sticky, blood-matted hair covering the tender spot behind his ear that throbs in time with his pulse. There's no telling how long he'd been out, but it'd been long enough for Hank to gain a decent lead and make signalling Red or finding Alonso impossible once he'd come to. One of them must've heard the shot. With any luck, Red won't be far behind.

Luck hasn't done him any favors lately.

With the purposeful way Hank's riding, he's got a destination in mind. Vasquez doesn't know what's east of Newsom Ranch besides Silverton, but maybe there is a cache of supplies in a line shack or a hidden camp somewhere among the rocks. The land itself is mostly flat but that is good; Vasquez wants Hank to know he's being followed. Jacob is safe as long as Hank has a reason to keep him alive, and the distance protects Vasquez from being shot at.

His arm aches and he grits his teeth. He really doesn't want to get shot again.

As near as he can figure, Hank spotted Sam and the others in town, snuck out, and galloped full tilt to Newsom Ranch in hopes of stealing a fresh mount and getting the hell out of New Mexico territory. 

(If Vasquez hadn't been there, maybe Jacob would be collecting eggs right now.

If Vasquez hadn't been there, maybe Jacob would be dead.)

The only saving grace is that Hank had apparently galloped away after nabbing Jacob and shooting Vasquez instead of taking the time to find a new horse. A tired horse cannot go on forever, especially if he's been riding hard all the way from Fancy Gap.

Vasquez sways again and has to grab the saddle horn with his good hand for balance, a move so green he's embarrassed despite no one being around to witness it. It's good that there's nothing to do now but ride in a straight line; if things get tricky—no. Whatever happens, he will get Jacob back.

And kill Hank.

Something trickles into his inner elbow. He hopes it is sweat. Something drips from behind his ear down his neck that he knows isn't.

The dirt takes on a reddish cast the longer he rides, the sparse sagebrush growing denser at the sides of the trail. Hank is still visible in the distance until he isn't.

Vasquez blinks. He tries to rub his eyes but can't, so he blinks again, wishing for Red or Goodnight. He squints through the heat beginning to shimmer in the air and can barely make out a tiny blot that might yet be Hank.

His horse's neck and mane are damp with sweat. Hank's horse must be worse.

All he can do is keep going.

It takes him a minute to realize the ground has begun to slope gently downward, cliffs slowly rising to either side. The trail is a dry riverbed—he is riding into a canyon. _Hank_ has ridden into a canyon, and Vasquez is gaining on him. He can see the top of Jacob's head above Hank's shoulder as Hank leaves the smoother path to turn north up a narrower offshoot, out of sight.

The smart thing to do would be to dismount and edge carefully around the rocks to make sure Hank isn't waiting to get the drop on him, but he is not so sure he will be able to get back in the saddle if he does, so the smart thing is out.

Hanging onto the saddle horn, he takes the bend at full speed.

Several hundred yards away, the offshoot dead ends into the crumbling slope of a rockslide. In front of it, still mounted, is Hank. He has Jacob held tight to his chest, a pistol in his hand.

The first shot rings off the canyon wall and rock chips spray across Vasquez's face. His injured arm jerks up instinctively, and he gasps at the fresh lick of flame that rolls from his shoulder to his gut.

Hank's second and third shots do not get so close as the first, pinging off the cliffs as Vasquez clings to the saddle horn and bends low over his horse's neck as he swerves and pivots. Shooting back is out of the question even if he'd had a hand to spare; he cannot hit Jacob or Hank's horse. If he stops, Hank will have time to turn his gun on Jacob.

He doesn't stop.

He is not so large as Horne, but he can probably knock Hank to the ground. If he does it right, Hank will break Jacob's fall, too.

He is definitely going to get shot again.

His pulse roars in his ears, but he swears he hears someone yell, "Faraday, left!" right before Hank's fourth shot whizzes so close to his head that the absence of a bright burst of pain is more surprising than when the fifth shot hits him.

Shit.

Shit, shit, shit.

There's time. There has to be enough time.

The new wound is—it's bad. He's not stupid.

His grip on the saddle horn begins to falter, but he can hear Hank shouting over the thunder of hooves and see Jacob sink his teeth into Hank's arm. At the last possible second he spurs his horse to lunge right and launches himself out of the saddle.

The horses squeal. Someone screams.

They hit the ground _hard_.

Hank is on the bottom. That is good. Jacob pops up and stumbles away over the rocks until he's out of Vasquez's eyeline. He feels like he's been kicked in the chest by a full-grown steer and he can't breathe—he can't breathe, he can't breathe, he can't breathe. Then Hank puts his hands on his wounds and shoves and he has breath enough to retch and pant, shallow and quick.

"Drop your goddamn weapons!" Hank howls, scrabbling backwards. He still has a pistol, but it's not pointed at Vasquez.

The hard edges of the red cliffs stand out starkly against the pale blue sky. Something breaks the solid line, there and gone again, or maybe never there at all. Vasquez isn't sure why he's looking up.

"Easy now," someone says.

"Put 'em _down_!"

Metal clatters against rock and Vasquez opens his eyes. Hank isn't looking at him. There's blood on his shirt.

"There, see? Dropped 'em both. Nothin' to get excited about." The voice gets louder. "Jacob, stay put. Are you all right?"

"I—I th-think so."

Good. That's good. Faraday will get Jacob home. Vasquez closes his eyes again.

"Get back!"

Hank is still breathing. That's not so good.

Closer, Faraday says, "Listen, I know you only got one shot left. You're bleeding. How about you just go?"

"Like hell," Hank spits. "I shot your vaquero friend."

"I can see that. Lucky for you, I care a whole helluva lot more about him livin' than I do about you dyin'. You know he needs a doc. You know I gotta stop the bleedin' to get him to one. I can't chase you and help him. You can even take my horse, all right? He ain't near as tired as yours."

Vasquez manages to turn his head a little to see Faraday. It is something he wants. Faraday reaches for Wild Jack's reins. Hank hesitates. The muzzle of his pistol dips.

The hand Faraday raises in Hank's direction has no reins. What it does have is his holdout pistol. Faraday fires. Hank lurches, his head tipping backward. Striped fletching sprouts from his throat. Vasquez smiles.

The next time his eyes open, Faraday's pale face is above him. That isn't right. He's taller than Faraday.

"Vas? Vas, c'mon. Vasquez!"

Vasquez tries to lick his lips. His mouth is very dry. "Güerito."

"Jesus wept. What were you thinking? You ain't some big goddamn hero."

Whatever reply Vasquez might make is lost when Faraday presses down harder on his chest. The pain of it brings the world into razor-sharp focus and he knows he will not last much longer. Jacob appears over Faraday's shoulder, the pressure easing briefly when Faraday reaches up to take something from him. His hands are red and wet.

"Don't..." The words get stuck in his throat. Vasquez sucks in as deep a breath as he can handle and tries again. "Don't worry. It is only a little blood. I have more."

"The fuck you do," Faraday mutters, then yells, "Red!"

"Is he gonna be okay?" Jacob whispers.

"He better. I still owe him for that card trick bet. You hear that, Vas? You went to an awful lot of trouble, but if you want him this bad, fine, you can have Wild Jack."

If Vasquez could laugh, he would. "Gracias, Faraday." At least he'll go with a smile and a devil-horse to show him the way.

***

Something wakes him. The sun is gone and he is cold, but his chest and his arm are on fire. Red and Jacob are sideways, or maybe Vasquez is. "I wanted to kill Hank," he rasps.

Red's head turns. "Too bad."

There's more noise, but everything fuzzes and blurs and fades.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun Facts: 
>   * The Pinkerton National Detective Agency established the first criminal database and did a lot of other stuff, some of which was cool (hiring women as detectives!) and some of which was... not. It still exists today as a security company.
>   * "Jackass" is a term of affection coming from a Faraday sibling.
>   * The bit with Jacob's wooden animals was inspired by [purplenerd777](https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplenerd777/pseuds/purplenerd777)'s comment on the last chapter asking "Why a fish?" which made me realize the answer was "because Faraday is a failboat." lol
>   * A poker hand with aces and eights is called a dead man's hand on account of Wild Bill Hickok being shot while allegedly holding those cards.
> 

> 
> I hope there were some funny moments in there for you before I, uh, did that. Again, not my original intention, but I am 99% sure that the next chapter will actually be the last one! Woo! Kinda appropriate for my Mag7 fic to have 7 chapters though, eh? Eh? ~~I can't even pretend it was on purpose.~~
> 
> All kudos, comments, and bookmarks are deeply appreciated! <3 I'm also over on [tumblr](https://whitedatura.tumblr.com) and am more than happy to receive any [asks](https://whitedatura.tumblr.com/ask). :D


End file.
